


Up She Rises

by spacebrock



Series: Stars, Devils, and Symbiotes [4]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Guardians of the Galaxy (Comics), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Venom (Comics), Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pirates of the Caribbean Fusion, Bloodshed, Historical, M/M, Multi, Nautical, Naval, POTC - Freeform, Pirates, There may be some magic involved, Violence, in theory, mental health, stay tuned, tbd updated later, thematic elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:15:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 71,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26165509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacebrock/pseuds/spacebrock
Summary: There is a man on the sea they think may actually be more like the Devil himself. There is another man who rides a painted ship and lives a charmed life of effortless fantasy. And a third man, caught between Heaven and Hell, on the rocky shores of uncertainty. What will become of the privateers and their follies?
Relationships: Eddie Brock/Matt Murdock/Peter Quill, Matt Murdock/Peter Quill, guess what time it is - Relationship
Series: Stars, Devils, and Symbiotes [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859026
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	1. Bargain Struck

###  March the 25th, the Year of our Lord 1701.

_ Somewhere between Satan’s Galley and the Dashing Stones  _

_ Ship’s Log - The Riot _

_ Captain’s told us there is to be no stopping once we reach the Galley. Pressing onward till we find Alderney or Lundy. Whichever comes first. Low populace, but we can restock there. Drake’s shaken - never seen him so rattled. The storms have been increasingly bad these past few days, resulting in the losses of two men. As such, we carry on despite this, trying to find faith in the fact that we’ve made it this far.  _

_ But we are...very low on supplies. _

_ It’s been weeks without proper food. Drake’s insistence that there is something out there in the middle of the sea worth seeking has led him down many an unorthodox path before, but this one was the worst so far. We’ve come up empty-handed; no great treasure or -- as he so puts it -- the “glory of another world”. A tradesman and a scholar -- one would think he’d know better. Perhaps he does, but lacks the tools and the necessary abilities to achieve the goals he’s set out to accomplish.  _

_ No man worth his salt would dive headlong into the sea for something out of a fable. A fairytale. A ghost story. _

_ Speaking of ghost stories… _

_ It has not escaped my attention that the hook of our trip’s trajectory will now lead us past what is known to be territory for ambush. Pirates. Blaggards. That sort of thing. The Stones have crushed many a ship in their wake, however, thus -- most vessels are driven through that narrow channel between the frothing whirlpool and the rocks accordingly. The literal Scylla and Charybdis of legend. Perhaps enough to make a man believe anything is possible. _

_ May we be Odysseus homeward-bound despite all things, and may something have mercy on us all. _

_ And of course, England is home.  _

_ Why wouldn’t she be? _

_ The captain is calling all up to deck. I shall write more again soon. _

\--

Closing his book and blowing out the candle, Eddie Brock slipped his quill back into its inkwell and rose to his feet, tucking the log away into his vest as ever he did. Safest place for it was on his person directly. No one could read the little codes and cheats he’d put between the margins and lines that way, after all. 

The creaking of the ship on the rolling waves was second nature at this point. Absentmindedly, he caught a tumbling candlestick as it slid past him on the table; and righted it against the nook he’d carved out for just that express purpose.

It had been three months on this ship. Three months of dealing with Drake’s temper-tantrums, with the hurricane down the coast of the Caribbean, with the sunburn and the bloodstains on the deck that wouldn’t come out from the sharks they’d hauled aboard…”to study”. The stench had stayed for  _ weeks. _

Edward regretted every moment of it. More so, he thought, than any other venture he’d thus undertaken as a privateer’s bookkeeper and writer. These stints did not sustain the soul - if anything, he felt more battered in spirit every day aboard  _ The Riot  _ in particular. Prior to this had been  _ The Report, The Herald, The Heavenly Bugle -  _ each a disaster in their own right between the infestation of rats aboard one, the decaying hull of another, and the captain that’d whipped his crew with words and lashes alike.

Each was as miserable as the last, and he seemed bound to ride them all till the end of his days. 

What else could be expected of a man such as he?

Past the rotting smell of damp wood and fish carcasses, he climbed - taking the steps up to the topdeck with a quick gait, tugging vest and jacket into place in the process. The light hit his eyes with a silvery burst, and he shielded a hand to his brow against the brilliant flashes in the air. 

All along the deck, the men gathered by the railing, staring at something he couldn’t see yet.

A few steps more and he could, however - towering over a few of the shorter men and peering off into the horizon. There; against a few of the less toothy Stones, was another ship.

“Tragedy, innit,” one man whispered to another. The first nodded and crossed himself, hands somewhat shaky. “She made it so close to safety.”

“Looks empty,” noted another, and Eddie shifted through the crowd as a form of ink himself, finding the places in which he could leak through the gathered throngs. His hands found the railing and he leaned over, squinting at the vessel.

_ \--lp me. _

The cry came on the wind, so soft and lilting he almost missed it. One hand rose to silence the chatter of the crew. 

“Voices down.”

“Excuse me,” Drake caterwauled from somewhere up the deck. “Who do you think you are, giving orders on my ship--”

“The man who’s trying to hear something,” Eddie fired back, careful to keep his voice level - lest his secrets spill. The hand lowered, and on the breezes, the pitiful whisper came again:

_ Help me! _

Eddie felt his blood run cold.

“There’s someone still on-board.”

“Well, they’re at a loss,” Drake said after a terse pause of silence. “We cannot possibly get closer to their vessel. The Stones will tear our hull apart.” Eddie shot Drake a withering stare and stepped around the rail, the crew, and the barrel of a massive cannon, striding toward the captain. The narrow-faced man tensed considerably as Eddie made his way at a quick stride; nearly nose-to-nose with him.

“You have spent,” Eddie said in a low voice so as not to embarrass him [overly-much] in front of his men, “the past few months running us all ragged chasing faerie stories in the shallows of foreign lands. We are hungry. We are tired. We are going to do one good and worthy thing on this godforsaken journey if it so pleases you or  _ not, _ captain.” Drake stammered off into silence at the look he received. Up close, Eddie knew every scar was visible - the laceration of an eye that he’d nearly lost, traced as if by a sextant beneath it and gashed through, the nick on the corner of his mouth, and the scrape across an earlobe. He’d been through Hell before. He wasn’t about to be intimidated by any man with half a fortune to his name and aimless, selfish acts that cost them all so dearly.

But he was charming, too. It showed in the way he smiled; clapped his hands to Drake’s shoulders, and gave him a little shake of reassurance.

“Steady now, captain. Have I steered you wrong before? I know the way.”

“How?” Drake asked plaintively as Eddie withdrew. He crooked two fingers, the pinkie permanently bent at the tip to follow, and walked them across the air. The pointer and middle fell together and Eddie nodded to himself.

“Past that little alcove -- “ he motioned quickly, “and turn left at three. Follow the current and that’ll glide us in a safe circle around that cluster of Stones. It’ll take a careful hand, but I know you’re capable.” Drake still looked doubtful. A third time, damnably pathetic, the call came:

_ Help me! _

“If nothing else,” Eddie said, deciding to play one last card on the table, “it’s a King’s vessel. The cargo aboard should be returned to His Majesty, should it not?” There it was. The flicker of greed that overrode anything human otherwise. Drake sighed through his nose, and then:

“...Damn it all to Hell,” he muttered, and strode off to climb up to the steering. 

Eddie smiled in satisfaction; relieved. He turned back to face the ocean with a call of “we’re coming - hang on!” --

And then paused.

Abandoned vessel. Cries for help. One man. That was one man’s voice. Not a series of sailors. Just one man.  _ Why was that ringing a bell?  _

The ship was already beginning to turn when it dawned on him. The sailors had returned to their stations, preparing for rescue. The storm clouds overhead had given way to a frail kind of sunshine. The choppy waves dipped and swayed, lazily licking the sides of the ship like cold black flames.

_ Flames _ .

**Hell** .

**_HELL_ ** .

“Shit,” Eddie whispered, and rushed off up the deck at a run to get to Drake. He  _ had  _ steered him wrong. He’d steered them  _ all  _ wrong. How could he have been so stupid?

He’d just been thinking of legends, hadn’t he? Things that scared men in the dark. Treasure at the bottom of the sea. The  _ sidhe  _ back home - true home, buried deep in his heart where England couldn’t reach it, like a stubbornly-clutched and slumbering seed. They were out there, and so was he.

“The Devil,” Eddie whispered, and lo, like true flame, he caught the first banner of war.

On the deck, just close enough to witness, stood that single man who’d cried for help in a voice like a plaintive widow. But he stood far from sad; shoulders back and chest puffed out. He was a titan in dark clothing; his face half-covered. But the sun is what caught fire, tangled in his wind-whipped hair. His hands were balled into fists, no sword at his side; no pistol. He was a shadow that’d been given half a human face, and when he moved, it was sudden as it was unstoppable. 

The smile, when they came within range, however, was the worst of it.

“Turn back!” Eddie bellowed, plunging headlong up the deck. “Turn back, I was wrong, turn back, captain--” Drake had exactly one second to glance down at Eddie, baffled by his sudden change of heart and the shift in plans --

Before something whistled through the air and struck him upside the head. There was a look of surprise on his face before blood began to spill, and, with a staggering step backwards, Drake pitched against the floor of the ship in a heap.

Panic stole Eddie’s breath. This was it. This was the end. He’d just damned them all to Hell.

Guilt swam in the pit of his stomach as he scrambled down against the deck, ducking to try and find what had struck Drake to begin with. He could find nothing - no sign of a weapon, just Drake lying still and oddly shocked on the floor. Heart hammering in his throat, Eddie scrambled over the polished wood and quickly rolled away behind a cannon.

Down on the deck, he could hear the screams begin. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the Devil board the ship, swinging in like the stroke of a quill across the page. He wrote men’s eulogies in blood and let the sea wash them all away; for he mourned nothing he did. That’s what they said. In the malice of his vicious smile; teeth so white and terrible they practically  _ shone, _ Eddie could see that, too.    
  
He knew terrible men. He knew how they operated, knew how they moved. He was one of them.

But the Devil was  _ not  _ a man. Not by the strange, silent way in which he swept through the crowds. Eddie watched as his feet connected with the chest of a sailor fumbling for his pistol, casting him overboard with enough force that the railing broke behind him. He screamed; plunging into the gaping water with a crackling burst of oaken splinters. A cannon rolled off-deck to follow, unbound. Ropes in the Devil’s hands found their way around another man’s neck as he used the body for leverage and  _ rose,  _ impossible, eerie, and near-vertical, swiveling to cast the other man down into the depths as well. With a wrench of his hands, something went funny in the bound man’s neck, and he, too, dropped like a stone.

It occurred to him that this Devil fought with his fists alone because he didn’t  _ want  _ a weapon. No - he wanted to finish them all off directly himself, bloodying his hands with their lives. Feeling them leave their bodies. He dragged them to Hell with him with each burst of bone and strain of sinew. 

And he was laughing; silently, as he did it. 

Eddie’s mind raced. He was just another soul aboard this ship who’d done this wicked deed. From a good place in his heart, no less. The one sympathetic man who tried to heed a cry for help. Anger rose to battle fear. How  _ dare  _ he be tricked like this? Why was it he, who was already so damned, who was the one who’d signed their deaths over to the dauntless Devil?

He wasn’t going to stand for this. 

In fact, he was going to  _ crawl. _

On his belly like a beast; like the twisted serpent of Eden itself, Eddie slunk toward the belly of the ship. If he hid, long enough, well enough, then maybe…

The book tugged against his breast as he shimmied down the deck, hidden by cannons and fodder. 

Right. 

The log. 

He’d memorized all of it - a gift of his, actually. One that puzzled what few scholars he’d come across, as they’d ask him for information and he’d rattle it off without having to look at anything. He could predict the weather from it, the patterns of the sky well-known to him now. It was why he’d been so furious when Drake ignored his insistence to turn back by Jamaica and they got caught in the worst hurricane he’d yet experienced. It was only through his redirection to a nearby channel that they managed to sail free of it with minimal damage to the vessel herself.

But weather patterns would do him no good here. The Devil made his own weather. His own luck. Fog rolled in from the laughing mouth of Tartarus, claiming men who scrabbled for purchase and yelled in the gloom.

There were more sounds. Breakage of bones or beams, he couldn’t tell. Eddie watched as a phantom sail; torn and tattered, swooped down low overhead. His hands wound around the book clutched to himself and he almost made it, when --

Black boots. Black legs. Black form. 

A white and  _ ghastly  _ smile.

The Devil was panting slightly - from the sport of things; from the hell of it all, infernal little breaths hot and ghostly in the chilled air. Eddie stared up at him and his covered face, the flaming locks and the jaw like marble.  _ Lucifer was beautiful, too,  _ Eddie remembered hearing, the drone of the lecture in a church that was too swelteringly hot and terrible.  _ Beware the beautiful things of the world, lest they lead you to ruin and the Devil himself. _

He should’ve known better. Maybe should’ve paid attention to that lesson in church. But it’s hard to believe there was anything worse than the officers guarding the poorhouse doors, or the merchants in the street who passed by the beggars and urchins. Calling him dirty. Calling him --

“ _ Cladhaire _ ,” the Devil said, in a tone of merciless glee.  _ Coward. _ In his mother’s tongue; in the world he’d left behind. Haunting him now, chasing him still. Eddie shut his eyes; didn’t even try to deny it - and slowly began to get to his feet. Surprisingly, he was allowed to rise - and up he did rise, little by little, the bound book taken from his vest and held by a wavering hand. 

He had to think of something. Eddie could lean into being a coward. He was already doomed, that much he knew, but he’d be a coward and a  _ fool  _ not to try to save his own neck. He’d cost everyone else theirs, but for some reason, the Devil had hesitated when he got to him. For whatever reason. He’d take the time given and maybe live a little bit longer.

His hand with the book whipped into the air like a priest calling congregation to order. 

“I know where every ship in the Atlantic will be. And  _ when _ . All the ones accounted for by naval record, trade, and privateer alike.” The Devil didn’t speak, so Eddie pressed on, words tumbling out of his mouth at a frantic pace.

“Spare me. I’ll tell you. One ship a week. I know how ye operate.” It all began to fall apart then. Thread by thread, his carefully-crafted self began to unravel. 

Back he went; unspooling, in the dense thickets of blackberries and mud, hearing his mother call out to him across the way. Leitrim; warm and muddy in the Summertime. The crack of cannons in the distance and the sounds of marching feet. Running for his life. Always running. Never stopping. Till he could feel the fine clothes he’d stolen bog him down; till he could get caught in parties meant for men so much finer than himself. At his core, he was a little boy loose and terrified, throwing himself at the mercy of the workhouses; the poorhouses, the places lost souls went when they were denied any Heaven on Earth.

“I know ye go after English ships. I’ve heard t’e stories. Tracked yer patterns.” He wet his lips, eyes darting over the unmoved Devil’s visage. “Ye leave no men alive. But the tales perpetuate nonet’eless. Whatever it is ye’re after, whatever vengeance ye seek, I can help ye. Spare me, and I’ll tell ye one ship a week.” His trembling hand clenched the entirety of his life; the bound leather cover, the brass clasp - 

And he flung it, headlong, into the open sea. It struck stone before it hit the water, and was at once devoured by the gurgling whitecaps. 

He’d thrown it all away, and now it lived inside him and him alone. He could be invaluable. An asset. Someone indispensable. For a time, at any rate.

“One ship a week,” Eddie said raggedly, hand lowering back down at last. “Straight outtuv m’head. And t’en when I run outtuv ships...t’en,  _ t’en  _ you can kill me.” He could get away before that. He could  _ run. _ He could take up work as an accountant or a bookkeeper and record-keeper for someone else. Someone on land. Never sail again, never be aboard these miserable ships among their horrible crews, and not see the Devil of the Hell Galley ever again. The demon cocked its head, seeming to consider Eddie’s words. In the dying light; under the drifting mists, Eddie saw the start of something. Like holding a match to gunpowder; trailing gradually across the seam of his mouth.

It cracked into a wicked grin; then, something terrible and insidious. A stubborn chin lifted, and in a voice like the creaking of ship tinder on a windy night, the Devil purred:

_ “Y’have yerself a deal, Mr. Brock.” _

And Edward knew then that he had in fact sold his soul  _ one last time. _


	2. We Don't Dock.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living with your sins is bad enough - but when the Devil is your shipmate, it leaves even less room to avoid staring them in the face...

###  April 25th, 1701.

_ Blood _ .

Blood became Edward’s life over the span of the first month’s passage on the sea with the Devil. The waves were stained with it, caps dyed crimson and bowed before whatever bough struck them down. The decks were devoid of it after the remaining corpses had been rolled off into the water; after he’d cleaned till blisters bloomed on his fingers. The  _ Riot was  _ now so silent Eddie could hardly stand it. It was a world without sound, without peace. Everything was brine and unease, a great wooden space occupied by a soul and its keeper, one whom the wayward man didn’t dare to cross.

And he still had yet to know if he had another name besides “The Devil”. Nor had Eddie been able to see his eyes; anything above the nose. When above-deck, the Devil kept it all covered - only licking red embers were apparent at the edges of dark brown hair; auburn-tangled. That jaw like stubbornness incarnate, spirited and clenched. Stubble littered with rubies or permanent bloodstains, as if the force of life was trickling up out of his every pore. He was a thirsty, scrappy, angry creature, with hands so oft curled like claws around the ropes. Eddie would see him for a split second when on the upper deck, and then - 

He’d be halfway across the ship in an effortless stroke of black fabric, as soundless as their slice through the glassy waves. Upon occasion, he swung down directly in front of Eddie; an attempt at frightening him that  _ always  _ worked. It certainly fed into the constancy of the nickname he’d been given. And it always brought the most horrible grin to the Devil’s face. What Edward could see of it, anyway.

As it turned out, the Devil didn’t need a ship a week. His planning spanned much longer than that, he informed Edward. Most days, he spoke only Gaelic, the words flowing from a place of honey and knives; all sharply-spoken, but with a voice sweetly all-encompassing. There was omniscient confidence to it, a kind of inverted perversion of the divine. It doused Eddie; tarred and feathered him, hung him out to dry with the topsails.

_ “Come now, cladhaire.” _ Always “coward”, always cruel. Sticky-sweet and hot enough to burn. Against the biting chill of April across the English channel, it was almost welcome. Reminded him that he was, in fact, still alive, despite being a dead man walking under the supervision of the Prince of Darkness himself.  _ “Do you t’ink I act rashly? No - ye’ll live a while longer yet, I’d wager. Give me a name. Give me a path. Let’s see if ye were actually worth keepin’, ye spineless dog.” _

And so Eddie had cracked open the book in his mind, blown the dust off the pages, and come up with the ship bound for spices across the ocean.  _ The Pin  _ wasn’t a particularly fast vessel - she was built for collections and cargo transport of a great measure, known for making the particularly treacherous journey to India’s territories. She had good rapport with the heathens of the sea - paying her way through for safe passage, and still managing to turn a profit that surpassed most of her fellows. They said the King’s  _ Pin  _ was led by a captain who knew no fear, but Eddie had to wonder - 

Why would a man who supposedly feared nothing be so inclined to take such precautions? Surely he’d simply barrel straight ahead; determined and unbothered by the threat of eminent danger. There were always a million risks at sea, from storm to fellow man.

Eddie sometimes felt it was as if God Himself had abandoned the ocean. Or turned a blind eye to any man prideful or brave [or stupid] enough to face it alone.

Then again, Edward Brock had felt abandoned by God for a very long time.

“ _ Cladhaire, _ ” a voice breathed in his ear, and Eddie started up and away from the railing of the ship to look around. No one was there. Or, more aptly - 

“ _ Nach bhfuil an-sciobtha, an bhfuil tú _ ?” the Devil chuckled behind him again, and this time, when Eddie swung left, there he was - upside-down, suspended by ropes, his fiendish expression in place. Heart thumping hard in his chest, Eddie glared at the dark figure, clutching the edge of the ship.

“I don’t have to be quick,” he retorted, determinedly English. The smile slipped slightly from the Devil’s visage. “You just have to wear a bell.”

In one swift movement, the Devil righted himself and dropped to the floor of the deck, mere centimeters apart from Eddie. The smile had completely vanished now, replaced by something mutinous and mirthless. Chests nearly colliding, the Devil leaned in to speak to Eddie in that voice like molasses and gunpowder, a purr that sent a chill chasing down his spine.

“I,” the Devil said, letting that word linger; solitary, for a moment, before pressing on: “don’t have to do  _ anyt’in’. _ ” His nose just about brushed Edward’s cheek as he turned, a snap of his teeth around his final statement: “stay here. We’re close. Two more leagues. I can hear her rudder turnin’.”

“What do you mean you can h--” But the Devil had darted up the rigging as if he himself was an extension of it, all sinew and strength. Through the swirls of mist and the miasma of lowering tides, Eddie could see the first signs of the  _ Pin’s  _ silhouette dancing on the waves. 

“Get below-deck,” the order came from on high. Eddie hesitated - then jolted as a sail nearly struck him, lowered abruptly by a harsh and terrible hand. “ **_Now,_ ** _ cladhaire. _ ”

Swallowing the bitter vengefulness of salt, Eddie did as he was told.

And in the dark hull of the ship, he waited - paced. He would’ve prayed if he thought it made a difference, but Edward hadn’t prayed since he was very small. Watchful eyes and man’s judgment drove him to his knees. On the cold, wet earth of the poorhouse chapel floor, he’d made vows to never be laid so low again. 

Perhaps he should’ve rethought his childish churlishness. It was one thing to rail against the heavens, and another thing entirely to turn one’s eye from them. To turn fully one’s back. He’d descended deeply into the false temples of prosperity. Of greed. 

And look where it’d gotten him, in the end.

He heard the Devil call from up on the deck -  _ help me, please! Please, help me _ \- and cursed himself, turning away from the table he’d sat at for months. He’d taken to writing further back in the ship’s great belly, like Jonah in the whale, regretting his mistakes and sins. There by lone candle, he’d scrawled away, drawing the Devil from recent memory and writing down everything he knew - which, admittedly, at this point, still wasn’t much.

_ \--lp me, please, I need you-- _

Eddie shut his eyes and waited for the screaming to begin.

But like it had been for the past thirty days, the world was disorientingly quiet.

There weren’t any wails or cries, this time. Just the soft slough and slosh of water; the flapping of torn sails in the wind. It was maddening to cry and gauge how much time was passing, down there, in his makeshift brig among the bones of many fishes and the skittering of rats. His breath blew ghosts upon the breezes chased down from above; and, wrapped in his layers, the record-keeper huddled in shadows - 

The dark was the only thing that could claim him now, after all.

From above, at long last, there came a single, soft-landing  _ whump  _ as something struck the deck over his head. A few seconds later, the voice of the Devil returned - slightly out of breath, but gruesomely gleeful:

“ _ A ligean ar dul, cladhaire _ .” Eddie peered up at the figure blotting out the frigid gray day, throat closing uneasily.

“...Go where? Hey--!” His arm seized, Eddie found himself hauled back up into the daylight, the harsh wink of silver a saber drawn across the slate horizon. Waves chopped and gnashed, now - roiling a fit to boil beneath the two vessels now closer together than before. A great gap still stole between them, however, promising death to any who dropped below. 

Judging by the bodies bobbing on the swells, death had come sooner than that.

“Across,” the Devil ordered flatly, motioning with his head toward the  _ Pin.  _ “We’re outtuv supplies. We’ve got anot’er to take.” Eddie wrenched his arm away and the Devil shrugged, stepping up onto the railing. “Ye don’t have t’follow,” he said coyly, twining his hand around one of the ropes loosed from the sails of the  _ Riot  _ above. “But just know t’at if ye don’t, ye’ll be by yerself t’deal wit’ t’e ship.” Panic set in as the Devil sailed through the air away from Eddie, away from the  _ Riot,  _ a sleek glide that found him pirouetting into place on the  _ Pin’s  _ deck. He even flourished a little bow after the fact.

Eddie’s eyes shifted toward the ropes doubtfully - then back down to the waves. If he fell...oh, God, it was a long way to fall. Strong swimmer though he was; growing up by the shores and the rivers and bogs, he couldn’t contend with this much water, surely. The ocean kept every man humble in that she took without mercy. Shore was still far. Even if he came to find somewhere else; someone else, to take him aboard and return him home, what then? England put the empty-handed back on the streets where they belonged. 

His hand slowly wrapped around a rope as he tugged it free. His stomach dropped as he stepped up onto the railing, boot groaning against fraying wood. Shifting his balance, Eddie tried not to think about his own mortality, the city of London choked by smog, the slap and nauseating splash of liquid churning below - and  _ leapt. _

It was a much clumsier, frantic spin than that of the Devil’s controlled arch across decks. There might’ve been a bit of a delay; a sharp pivot, and an unnecessary amount of strangled shouting before Eddie Brock rolled onto the top deck of the  _ Pin,  _ its smooth white pine surface laid across much sturdier oak. Flat on his back, facing the Devil and the deep pewter sky above, Eddie released the tether and realized a few things at once.

One, he’d scratched his hand something horrible on the fibers of the rope. Two, his back stung terribly from where he’d struck the floor of the ship. Three, there was a shocking lack of blood on the boards around him - lucky enough, he supposed - and four…

The Devil hadn’t been  _ bowing. _ He’d been prying up a plank of wood from behind a cannon to lay across the ships. The bridge was actually still there as Eddie stared; gaping a little. The Devil was facing him, disbelief coloring an expression made otherwise neutral by the black face mask.

Then, little by little, the Devil began to laugh.

It wasn’t even his nasty, wicked cackle, either - it was a husky huff of something just sideways of good-natured, little bubbling chuckles. His white teeth flashed as he shook his head, one boot kicking the plank clean off the deck and into the water. It splashed into oblivion somewhere far below, and, once he caught his breath, the Devil sighed, near-fondly:

“Ah,  _ leathcheann tú. _ ” Eddie winced, then sighed, rolling over to get to his feet.

An idiot? Yeah, honestly, at this point, the damned soul had to agree.

“So - what now?” He asked, once the snickering had subsided for the most part. The Devil looked around the deck, seeming to mull it over. Eddie took in the details of the ship while he did so, one hand lifting to trace the crown carved into the nearby framework. The  _ Pin _ was much more luxurious than the  _ Riot,  _ built for show and for stability. It was massive; too, much bigger all-around - a colossal undertaking for two men - well, an entity from another world and a man - to steer and maintain themselves. 

And yet, with total confidence, the Devil said at long last:

“Now, we plan fer t’e next venture. Get yer names ready,  _ leathcheann. _ ” Well, at least it wasn’t  _ coward.  _ He wasn’t sure what he preferred better. Eddie figured he wouldn’t be getting his name back anytime soon - what good was a name to a dead man, anyway?

“Will we be docking in port sometime in the near future?” He asked warily. They had a new ship; true, with many supplies, but he couldn’t help but think...surely…

All hopes were dashed by the pitiless look he was given. The Devil shook his head, ever-so-slightly. A marginal denial, enough to dash a man’s optimism to pieces. He scattered Eddie’s wistful whims to the breezes with a faint, humorless sigh.

“We don’t dock.” His lips twitched, and the Devil sidled back a step or two before turning away to stride off down the deck.

“Clean t’is place up. Tighten t’e sail ropes. Secure t’e rigging. Make yerself useful in ot’er ways,  _ leathcheann. _ ” In one swift movement, the Devil reached up to ascend the ladder to the crow’s nest, spinning neatly off the floor and into the clearing skies. Blue peeked through mercurial white. The cold was lifting, just a little. Eddie watched the Devil climb, quick as a squirrel.

The sun stained the Devil redder than ever, and Eddie, resigned to his fate, once more set about to do as he was told.


	3. Across the Stygian Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where does one draw the line when they're so far from shore or sense? No sand in which to etch that mark.  
> Only another tally for the wall of sins.

###  May 25th, 1701.

The next month passed strangely. By the light of the moon and the turn of the tide, they spent the weeks passing one another by; ships in the night themselves. When the Devil moved, he did so often without sound, effortless and frightening. 

He seemed content to take every opportunity to startle his unexpected crewmate, too - whether it was hanging upside-down from the rigging like a bat, sneaking up behind him to whisper “ _ good morning, leathcheann” _ in his ear - only to duck away before Eddie could strike him; smirking that ghoulish smirk - or simply manifesting beside Eddie, perched on the railing of the ship, as if he’d always been there. He was a black-clad gargoyle, perfectly-poised - a complete and total opposite to Eddie’s total lack of composure every time he caught a glimpse of the Devil out of the corner of his eye.

Edward made himself useful - what else could he do? Without a cook and without a crew, he and the Devil each had to work to maintain the ship. Eddie could cook, true enough - he’d learned to survive on his own for this long, after all. Needless to say, their supplies aboard the  _ Pin _ were nothing short of luxurious. Spices, teas, dried foods, ingredients for stew - they made due, the Devil and his charge, in the hull of the ship at night, breaking crusty brown bread over bowls of chowder. They ate in silence, typically, though every so often, Eddie tried to pry beneath the mask. Figuratively, of course. 

He wore it always; the Devil did. A shroud; funereal and ominous, covering the upper half of his face in a swath of ink that suggested whatever was under there - the world didn’t want to see it.

But like Pandora of old, part of Eddie wanted nothing more than to lift that lid and see what furies truly lurked beneath. If there were monsters held back by a simple strip of cloth, Edward figured it might just about restore his faith. But he’d seen the Devil in action, dancing from ship to ship, and he knew there wasn’t a bind on this or any other plane to keep that being at bay.

There were times Eddie thought he might not be such a monster, though. As aforementioned, by lack of crew, many of the chores fell between the two of them to do to keep the ship on her course to the next run - to a trade ship called  _ The Jester,  _ a jolly long ship that held many a gun despite its jovial name. It was well-armed; heavily-protected - a favorite for making the trek to the African continent - short runs, bursts between England and the other. Quick turnaround, nigh impossible to catch. A good secondary challenge. 

But the chores. There were the sails to stitch, the ropes to take care of, the cannons to check, the supplies to tally, the deck to scrub clean of bird-shit and other stains, the ship needed to steer on-course at all times…

Falling back on old habits of nerves and otherwise, Eddie found himself in a strange place. One that hummed in his bones, rolled up through his body, and, from the depths of his injured spirit, rose to meet the wind in song:

[ _ Now we are ready _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gi24A30X27s)

[ _ To sail for the horn _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gi24A30X27s)

[ _ Weigh hey, roll and go! _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gi24A30X27s)

[ _ Our boots and our clothes, _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gi24A30X27s)

[ _ Boys, are all in the pawn _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gi24A30X27s)

[ _ To be rollicking Randy Dandy-O! _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gi24A30X27s)

It made the time go by a little bit quicker. It eased the fist closed around his heart, crushing the muscle and matter to pulp between its fingers. It took the straining tension from his back; the scars of which ached just a little less from the effort. The salty air and the semblance of hymn to the sea aided his efforts. He worked faster; harder,  _ better,  _ with words and recitations, like a man driving the demons out of the churchyard. He was no priest, he had no faith, but he had words and music. Eddie had these things, at least.

It was a perfectly ordinary day in the middle of the month, the song still falling from his lips as he heaved up the netting from the sea. Fish slapped onto the deck, uselessly wriggling, and Eddie sank down to his knees to undo the ties, hands snapping up scad to toss into the barrel nearby. His voice, hoarse from disuse, but warm in tone, carried the lilt of Leitrim in it still - something he couldn’t quite shake off when agitated or angry. Or when lost to the words of the shanties, chanting prayerfully across the bobbing waves.

_ Heave a pawl, o heave away _

_ Weigh hey, roll and go! _

_ The anchor's on board _

_ And the cable's all stored _

_ To be rollicking Randy Dandy-O! _

He cast the net out once free of fish and set to work on his hands and knees, digging knots into place with quick tugs of his fingers. The callouses had long since returned to Eddie’s palms, leathery and toughened by the labor. Back bowed across the task at hand, he felt the shadow of the Devil pass overhead, swinging somewhere above. Not bothering to lift his head, Eddie lowered his voice, still fidgeting away. 

_ “Soon we'll be warping her out through the locks _ -” Something cast itself through the air, and, in one great leap, the Devil lunged for the mast nearby, catching hold of it with the ease of a wren walking sidelong up a tree. More shocking than this, however, was the fact that he joined in - a voice slightly lighter than Eddie’s own, surprisingly sweet. Eddie damn near stopped himself mid-task, but on second thought, dared not to. His voice shook as together, he and the Devil of the Deep both sang - 

_ “Weigh hey, roll and go!” _

_ “Where the pretty young girls -”  _ Eddie wrested a loop on the rope free, then wove it back together again, the Devil taking hold of one of his own to wind around the mizzenmast; languid loops as he swirled through the air, pretty as a thread through a needle or laces through a corset.  _ “All come down in their frocks…” _

_ “To be rollicking Randy Dandy-O…!” _ There was a whoop as the Devil sailed skyward again, and, just as suddenly as it’d all started, like a storm on the Caribbean sea - 

It passed.

But that night, after giving the Devil the  _ Jester’s  _ position, they kept talking. Difficult; different, and strange, but ceaseless. It wasn’t an argument, necessarily. It was more a...complaint the Devil had to file about the way Eddie cleaned the fish he’d cooked for dinner.

“Ye don’t get all t’e bones out,  _ leathcheann. _ ” 

“I most certainly do.” The Devil had cocked a grin his way and picked from his plate the  _ smallest  _ bone Edward had ever seen. It was minuscule; practically nothing. 

“Ye’re not careful enough,” the Devil cooed, waggling the little bone his way. “T’at’s how ye got in t’is mess in t’e first place, t’ough,  _ leathcheann.” _

“Can you  _ just  _ call me by my name? I’ve got one, you know, unlike you.” That stole the smile off the Devil’s face for the briefest of moments - before he conceded, seemingly, with a bow of his head.

“I might have one.”

“...Why’ve you not told me it, then?” The Devil grinned, rocking out of his seat with a lazy sway, arms stretching up over his head. A twist to the side, then back again, and he was spry as ever, hopping nimbly back up the steps from the under-deck, humming:

“Ye’ve never  _ asked me, leathcheann. _ ” Eddie made a face at his back. “Get some sleep once ye’ve cleaned up. Storm’s approaching, six miles out. Ye’ll need yer rest when we change vessels in t’e mornin’.” The chill stole through his blood at the declaration, and Eddie ground his teeth - remembering where he was, and who he was with.

When the man sang like an angel, it was...easy to forget the truth.

The truth caught up with them the next day when they came across the  _ Jester  _ in the middle of a typhoon squall, however. Rain lashed the deck and doused them in rocking tides upset by some great power threatening to overwhelm. The  _ Pin  _ dipped and rolled, Eddie along with it - grabbing hold of anything he could below the deck for purchase as he listened for the signal he’d come to expect above the cracking and booming of the sky. 

Eventually, the shrill whistle came, and up he rose from the depths of the  _ Pin,  _ stumbling blindly toward the other ship as sheets of silver cascaded around him. 

Knowing better than to look down, Eddie hoisted the trunk of supplies over his shoulder along with his satchel, and all but ran across the wobbling plank to the other ship. As if he’d practiced [and he had, in the dead of night, which was nobody’s business but his own]. He knew better than to try and swing on over now, at least.

It hadn’t been a clean fight, by the looks of things. Bits of uniform and loose musketballs littered the deck, the river of rainwater rushing all toward the sides of the ship. Eddie’s hand swept up to his face to drive the dreary weather off his features, making every effort to bring the details into view. For the records; and for those he kept that took stock of what was left of his soul.

Another piece whittled away at the sight of the bodies.

The Devil was rolling a few of them over; cast off the side and down into the black below. Red trickled off his hands as he worked, and more flowed from under the mask; the point of pain something broken in his nose. It was...odd, to see him bleed - Eddie hadn’t seen him bleed; not the first or second time. On the third, however - 

He was bloodied. Eddie started; realizing he’d been staring, but more importantly, realizing there was a slit up the side of his shirt - one that was even more crimson than the rest, bared almost in defiance.

“You’re hurt -” The Devil flung up a hand to keep him back a foot or two, and Eddie skidded to a halt, slipping slightly on the deck. One hand found the railing for purchase and he hovered, heart pounding, waiting for a command that didn’t initially come.

“Leave it. Get below-deck. Come back up and clean when t’e storm has passed over.” Between them, a body rolled, sightless eyes peering skyward. 

He was young. Really young. Twenty, if Eddie had to guess; two by two handfuls of years written into his features. His naval uniform had been cut to ribbons; scarlet stain seeping up from the new holes in his chest; the last wounds he’d ever feel on earth. Eddie’s instinct was to cross himself; for whatever reason - habits beaten into a man died hard - but he withheld, knowing full well no holy symbol would ever absolve any of them from this.

“...when does it stop?” Eddie asked abruptly as the Devil turned away, leaning heavily on the railing for support. The captain’s quarters, his typical hideaway on a new vessel, awaited him. Thunder groaned, though not as badly as the  _ Pin,  _ abandoned behind them to drift into oblivion. 

“Excuse me?” The Devil muttered over his shoulder, not quite stopping. Eddie started after him, a step or two, his face mutinous. In their line of work; a dangerous expression to allow. And it  _ was  _ their line of work, wasn’t it, Eddie realized.  _ Murder. Murder is our work. Ours, now. I serve the Devil. _

“When does it stop,  _ diabhal _ ?” He snapped, hands flung out - before he made the mistake of grabbing one of the Devil’s arms. “What if there’s children? What if--” He squawked, suddenly upended and slammed into the deck of the ship. A hand wound around his throat to keep him there; wet and white and cold as a corpse’s own.

“Oh, aye,  _ cladhaire, _ ” back to coward he went, “ _ English _ children?”

“Y-you wouldn’t,” Eddie rasped, baring his teeth. He could feel the cooling remnants of life spreading across his back; sticky with loss. The last remains of His Majesty’s soldiers aboard this ship. He gagged from it - and from the way the thumb  _ crushed  _ his windpipe, just enough. 

“You wouldn’t  _ kill them, _ ” Eddie croaked, and, for a moment, he caught a glimpse of the end - Tartarus’s maw in the form of black spots blooming in front of his eyes. 

Then the hand pulled back, and he was left to raggedly gasp and cough on the deck, the Devil rising up and away.

“I wouldn’t.” It’s a cold, merciless declaration, one full of loathing Eddie isn’t sure is meant for him or the Devil himself. “But make no mistake,  _ cladhaire… _ ” The kohl boot kicked his side and Eddie doubled around the source of agony, drawing his knees toward his chest. 

“I won’t stop. No matter what, so long as ye have names t’give...I will take t’em.” The voice drifted closer to his ear. “And I will keep my promise o’justice wit’out mercy. Just as ye will keep yers, because ye are, in your very soul, a  _ coward  _ to t’e end o’yer days.” 

Footsteps fell away as the Devil strode off, slower than his usual exit, but purposeful. 

“Get up. Go below deck. Back up again t’clean when t’e weat’er breaks.” A door slammed shut, latching.

Eddie did as he was told, but for one purpose and one purpose only.

When the moon made her way out of the cloud cover; when the rain let up to a mere distant drizzle, and the sea softened out to a plane of glass, Eddie made his move.

It was easy enough to find the end of a bayonet. To dislodge it from the musket, no longer in use. It was better this way - quieter. The Devil seemed aware of everything, but he’d said nothing to the practice of the plank, to the restless nights of pacing when he couldn’t sleep - no, he’d mocked nothing of Eddie’s nightly activities, for which he...was almost grateful.

If only because it now meant Edward could move freely toward the cabin, the sharp end in hand, carefully maneuvering the floors on bare feet. He took no chances, for this was his only one. It was a risk that he knew could cost him dearly, and then - 

Then Eddie’d well and truly be alone, but that was just  _ it,  _ wasn’t it? Better to be alone on the sea than to be in the court of Hell’s own king, damned to serve his whims and those of the demons he kept. 

The door to the captain’s cabin wasn’t latched when he tried it; surprisingly. It lifted up and away easily enough, and without a sound. Almost as if divine force  _ wanted  _ him to be there, creeping upward on the Devil in the darkness. 

Creep he did, too, bare feet picking their way around the shadowy floor, illuminated only by the moon peeking through the glass, and the stars that twinkled above. Phantom shapes of the ancient myths hung in the heavens, keeping a close eye on all activity on earth. And by sea. 

Eddie sank beside the bed, half-expecting the dark cloth and the covered features. It would’ve been so easy. 

It would’ve been so easy if he  _ had. _

Instead...instead of the Devil, there was a man.

On the pillow, sleeping soundly, his breath soft and at peace, there he was. Eddie blinked, rubbing an eye against a shoulder briefly, readying the weapon in his trembling hand. Tumble of russet hair; high brow fine and noble - gingery lashes keeping lids shut in slumber, with faint embroidery of scars around either side - like someone had tried to lace his eyes shut at one point or another; the feathery edging oddly splashed. 

And he was absolutely smothered in freckles.

Every inch of the skin Eddie could see was marked as if by the kisses of the cherubs, tiny pinpricks of sunny hope on a face that shouldn’t have known the light. One hand curled a little in the pillow, clutching at the divots in the fabric as if he pawed his way up from the ocean of blankets to be there. 

Eddie turned the blade in his hand and held it in both. Raised it high. A stake, a prayer, a sacrifice. Down on the altar of the bed, the figure didn’t move, still wrapped up in his dreaming.

For a long moment, for an eternity, Eddie stayed there - kneeling, reeling, holding his last hope on high. 

After a desperate and miserable forever, however, Eddie slowly lowered the weapon. It slipped horizontal between his fingers, and, after a moment, he laid it on the foot of the bed.

It would do no good. 

Once a coward, always a coward. The Devil was  _ right. _

There was only one way out for him now.

“... _ leathcheannnn, _ ” the soft voice he’d come to know so well slithered out of the garden of shadows; twining through the roots of the bedframe, the ancient boughs of tries dried for tinder and timber alike. A part of them, as much as they were a part of him. It was a coy little purr; a serpentine sigh, sleepy like a lover in the morning.

And those damned eyes were  _ open _ ; catching the moonlight in a strange; prismatic flicker, honey-gold with flecks of ethereal platinum. 

On that face, now revealed, a knowing little smile. One he’d seen before, made  _ worse  _ by revelations.

_ God’s most beautiful - _

Eddie shot back from the bed and fled at once, bare feet catching on splinters, haphazardly rushing up the steps. Back outside. Back below the heavenly eye. God judged from on high; in silence, as ever He did,  _ if He was even up there _ , and Eddie -    
  
He bolted to the railing, determined that this time,  _ this time, _ to find his way out. If the Devil was a man, perhaps, then, after all, there’d be a mercy for him in the afterlife. A mercy to escape to, a pitiful exit to his vexations. Tribulations over. Better to die as Judas than dissolve into deviltry, surely. To each man there was a purpose and a moral. 

His broad hand fumbled for a rope to hold onto as he heaved himself up and onto the edge of the railing. The abyss awaited below, smooth and perilous. In the deeps, the moon lit up shapes that circled. Waiting. Like the Devil had waited for him. To see what he’d do. 

_ He knew. _

_ There’d be a million ways to end this _ , Eddie realized. His fingers loosened on the rope somewhat as he leaned over the pool of endless night, seeing not himself in it, but eternity. It’d be so easy to just…

One foot found the deck again. He stepped back and off the railing. A finger at a time, and he let go of the rigging, which sprang back into place, unperturbed. Like he’d never even been there.

Doom wrapped its arms around him and pressed him to the mute chest of nothingness. He gasped faintly, a sob catching in his bruised throat, swallowed back down. 

There was nowhere to go. Too cowardly to even die. Too cowardly to kill.

In limbo; in purgatory, just waiting for his name to be called to Hell once and for all, Eddie Brock broke down into silent; wretched tears below the condemnation of the moon and stars.

Strange, lonely, and forgotten as another piece of midnight on the cold and Stygian sea.


	4. You Still Owe Me Your Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the man of fancy and a frolicking good time, who is more than meets the eye - and the heart - and the soul.

###  August 25th, 1701.

It wasn’t that nothing of consequence occurred in the two months before something  _ did. _ The consequences were simply the Devil’s own, guided on by a hand that stained so red it was positively copper. Eddie went through the motions of charting the courses, and the taunts of the Devil fell on the ears of a broken man. 

And he did feel well and truly broken. On the sloshing ocean, devoid of port and denied escape, Eddie made his way from ship to ship, the shadow of a rust-hued ghost whose presence ushered men beyond the grave. 

He’d been tormented by the night he’d seen the Devil’s face. Every freckle; each mark, the faint mesh of scars that fanned like lacewings on either side of his eyes - and those soft eyes, unseeing, glittering in the dark despite that.  _ Leatcheann.  _ He supposed he was, to have not run for the deck sooner.  _ Cladhaire,  _ for his inability to throw himself over the side into the sea.

The Devil, to his credit, seemed content to pretend it never happened at all. His business of taking over ships persisted as normal - though Eddie  _ swore  _ the man leaned in closer to his ear, so close the forked tongue nearly grazed it, to whisper  _ “time fer anot’er name, soft-hearted leatcheann _ ” as Eddie’s pen skittered away into the abyss, a scrawl of confused ink following. Almost always; he wound up startled by the Devil who moved with infuriating ease. 

The only times Eddie didn’t see him were the moments wherein the storms were at their worst. Huddled below in his own quarters, he listened to the creaking crash of hurricanes and gale winds, and occasionally, when stressed enough, the records-keeper sang. The faint murmuring lilt of lullabies against rioting nights, one lantern swinging from its hook. The ship would tip and roil, and Eddie would whisper-chant, “ _ up she rises, _ ” so the vessel would return from its sliding shift toward oblivion.

They weathered more than one storm, attended to the ship, and life continued. If it was an afterlife, Eddie wouldn’t have been surprised. If eternal torment was the stink of fish and the curling smirk of a tormentor who frightened him at any given opportunity - he’d believe it.

He’d tried, to the best of his abilities, to at least understand the Devil. Tried to trace the village origin of his accent, going over dialect in his head. He’d even attempted a couple of questions, which were, at best, wickedly repelled - parried more cleanly than any work with a saber, and just as cutting in remarks.  _ What d’ye care? Tryin’ t’absolve yer conscience, Brock? Don’t ye know t’e Devil has no home? No family?  _

The bitterness had been evident despite the sneer, but Eddie hadn’t learned much. Not even his name, if he had one.

He’d tried to name a ship at random, but twice the name got deflected: the  _ Milano. _

Whatever it was, the Devil avoided that ship - a rogue mercantile formerly owned by the royal navy, it was now infamous for its strange and wild crew. Rumor has it there was a woman wrapped in emerald silks who knew how to take ships out where it’d hurt the worst. A great and terrible, bare-chested man whose battle cry rang louder than cannon-fire - but to name a few. 

And the captain - something devilish himself, by the sounds of things. Edward’d never seen him, nor the ship, but the rumors were limitless as the leaflets depicting varying degrees of charm and good looks; oftentimes littered along the walls of the ragtag port shacks. Posters for reward from the English guards, which was all the more reason to pay attention - supposedly. The claim for capture was - significant to say the least.

Another story said that storms evaded the ship, and clear waters always surrounded the vessel as it made its way back and forth across the galloping waves. That the songs were plentiful from the decks, joyful in their rising toward the heavens - and that all elements under the eyes of God were at the command of the captain himself. Some said they were Good Neighbours, gallivanting across the horizon, spiriting lost souls away by the sound of their music or the flap of their sunset-sails. 

Ghost stories; again - most likely no more telling than the Devil himself, but…

Eddie couldn’t help but wonder whether or not that was exactly  _ why  _ the Devil was avoiding the  _ Milano. _

But he continued to give the Devil other names -  _ The Nobu,  _ a great gunship from far across the horizon that’d turned out to be full of dried, smoky fish and barrels of black pearls; and  _ The Elektra,  _ a narrow red cedar vessel, full of gunpowder and various flowers collected from faraway lands. 

It was aboard the  _ Elektra  _ that Eddie tried again.

He knew he could man this ship by himself if he had to. Now or never. He had to try. If he was too cowardly to die, he could be brave enough to live, he supposed - even if the underhanded means of which were only more reasons for him to be wiped off the Earth by the standards of man [or Devil]. It  _ was  _ a coward’s act, to keep trying to move the pieces where he saw fit - trying to maneuver the board when he was a rough player at best. Maybe just a step above pawn. A rook. A roustabout, if nothing else, masquerading as some sort of societal influence.

All he had were his words, though - and so, he used them. 

“My best guess,” Eddie told the Devil one gloomy August evening, when the air was thick and dull with lack of breeze, “is that the next ship closest to us on the channel is…” he pressed his fingers into the table and walked them along the edge of an imaginary map. Below his hand, he could see, as if etched in gold, the visual emblazoned across his mind. It glowed; charter of the ocean and all its moving ships ivory in the moonlight. “The  _ Milano. _ ” He exhaled. “Again.”

The Devil’s hand descended and the mirage of mental cartography vanished; intercepted by fingers freshly-cleaned. The scent of something like citrus and rosemary followed; maybe spice, Eddie wasn’t sure. In the close quarters of the captain’s cabin; the rare occasion he was allowed in to tell the Devil where to go next, Eddie felt the heat as his keeper leaned in, the other man’s voice low.

“T’ought I said we wouldn’t be dealin’ wit’ t’at one just yet,  _ leatcheann. _ ”

“It makes the most sense, logically, to pursue - “ Eddie flinched slightly at the way the Devil shifted closer.

“Out of t’e question.” As the Devil pulled back, however, Eddie, desperate - thinking, perhaps, the  _ Milano  _ was his only way out, if he could convince him to simply  _ try  _ \- snapped out a hand to snatch the Devil by the arm. The dark being froze, affronted, but didn’t push him away.

“Are you going to avoid it forever?” Eddie asked; neck burning and heart hammering as he held on tight to the other. Now or never. Testing a theory, he added, low and snide: “are  _ ye  _ t’e one truly a  _ cladhaire _ ?” 

At that, the Devil  _ did  _ wrench his arm free - and with a quick flick of his wrist, shoved Eddie back in his seat, thumb curving up over the bulge of his throat. Eddie froze in the firelight, gazing up at the gilded visage of Death himself.

“Be careful,” the Devil said, voice all-too-soft and sweet, “lest ye find m’hospitality shorter-lived t’an previously bargained for.” The pad of the Devil’s thumb, coarse, yet velveteen, stroked lazily over Eddie’s veins before the hand withdrew.

“Tomorrow, t’e  _ Milano _ , t’en,” said Eddie’s tormentor; Devil-May-Care and all. “We’ll see what beauty she has t’offer.” His smirk returned; sly and pointed, before he dismissed Eddie to the darkness that was the rest of the stolen ship.

Dawn came white and brilliant as a diamond; hard across the surface of the sea. Gulls spun in tizzies; a few fish leaping as if to celebrate reality itself, but Eddie - nursing a headache fueled by rum he’d dug up from the depths of the ship - could only watch the tide with his usual level of foreboding and guilt. 

“Get below,” the Devil ordered, as always, climbing onto the thin black railing of the  _ Elektra. _ Eddie almost did as he was told; again, but at the last possible second, ducked behind a tall stack of the barrels instead. Gunpowder smudged the back of his woebegone clothes; the threadbare vest and shirt made that much sorrier by their incessant travel; jumping from place to place. He inhaled to withhold a sneeze; and, still holding his breath, peered around the stacks to try and witness what he hoped would be the end. An end, if nothing else. 

His or the Devil’s, he wasn’t sure he cared all that much anymore.

When they turned the bend around the broad jetty of stones nearby, propelled onward by winds of zealous change, the  _ Milano  _ **gleamed** into view. Its lucency blazed in the way the heavens did; sparkling and twinkling freely on the waves. She was a  _ gorgeous  _ ship; of fine tinder bound in seamless beauty. The masts were twined with - Eddie squinted - some sort of orange flower; climbing blooms, morning glories, maybe, likewise. Details were painted - painted! - on the interior; suns and dozens of heavenly bodies running along the inside. Ribbons, baubles - charms hung from the sails like depictions of the  _ sidhe,  _ shining in the sun. Around it, the swooping terns dipped and swiveled, shooting between the thin lines between the rigging’s loops. 

Up on the deck, the Devil began his calls of distress, but the  _ Milano  _ was already steering their way - her great bow flashing in the rising sun. There was a distant, sweet voice on the breeze, somewhere toward the stern, followed by the lilt of harp-strings - 

_ Are you going to Scarborough Fair? _

_ Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme _

_ Remember me to one who lives there _

_ He once was a true love of mine... _

It was...timeless, nonsensical. Strange. As light continued to spill across the sea, it invaded the shadows cast by the  _ Elektra,  _ scattering dappled pleasantry over her glossy black sides. The Devil rose on the deck to greet the coming of the ship, and, with his typical lack of hesitation once the  _ Milano  _ came alongside within reach, swung outward on the loosed rigging.

“We’re being  _ boarded, _ ” came a gleeful cry, followed by the bellowing of half a dozen different voices. There were clashes and clatters, and, chancing a look around the stacks again more avidly than before, Eddie watched the dark figure hit the deck and roll upright, fists upraised. “What’s the occasion?” A pause followed, and the voice, no less mirthful, teased the air anew:

“ _ Is that the ACTUAL Devil I’ve heard so much about? _ ”

In the middle of the painted main floor; surrounded by more colors than a church’s window, the Devil looked like a spill of ink where no darkness should exist. The song shifted; the unseen woman lilting along the wind in a language that sounded almost like a violin. An orchestra, effortless in soprano, conducting chaos about to unfold.

As expected, the Devil began to move - throwing a punch at the captain; as strapping as the art portrayed him - if not more so. Saber in hand, Captain Quill swiveled on his heel - evading the blow - and brought his arm down not to  _ block  _ the Devil, but rather, to shove him  _ back _ . The Devil jolted, then scowled, and one hand snapped out to try and catch the captain with a hook of his arm. Hair like the top of a candle wisped out of reach, Quill all but bending backwards with the effort,  _ laughing. _ It was surreal - the depiction of a dreamscape. Mercurial and impossible. 

Normally, at this point, there’d be shrieks. There’d be blood. There’d be the hellish, snarling laugh lost to the gales. But the sun was out, the sky was bright, and the wind was low. 

And the Devil of the Deep Blue Sea  _ stumbled  _ \- caught by the massive man with his many markings and hurled  _ back  _ toward the Captain - who, in one smooth sheathing of his sword - swung the Devil toward the green-clad woman instead. The Devil brought a hand up to trade blows with her - evenly-matched, their hands met and deflected until one leg lifted and the woman in verdant  _ kicked  _ outward - 

Sending the Devil crashing back into the Captain’s arms.

Mesmerized, Eddie crept further out from behind the crates, watching the events unfold. At this point, Quill - his smile so broad it threatened to overtake his entirely devious face - had grabbed the Devil’s hands, swinging him around in place despite the way he wriggled and thrashed. Up in the Crow’s Nest, the song continued, trickling down over everything like drifting dew. The air shimmered; sweetening - as if they were passing islands of lilacs and myrrh. 

“Come on, surely there’s more to you than just this,” Quill chirped - belied by the sound of the laughing gulls and the frothing waters. The Devil bared his teeth a little and  _ lunged,  _ but the captain must’ve raised his foot ever-so-slightly, because all of a sudden, the Devil was spiraling to the sound of the music; spun under a hand, and  _ tilted  _ backwards - 

Eddie rose onto the railing with a disbelieving laugh, trying to better see what was coming to pass - eyes suddenly alight with possibility. With hope. Whatever this was, it was - unnatural, in the strange and unsettling life he now lived. In with the Devil, there was only darkness and torment - the damp damnation of a thousand typhoons with hot tongues of fire. Lightning strikes; crack of cannon-fire.

But all seemed like Eastertide; white lily-capped waves and the gild of a dozen Summers sending colors in painterly caress across the decks of a strange, fey ship. And with one great whorl, Quill, the Legendary Outlaw of the Seven Seas, whose star-shaped buttons caught the light and held it in each notch of his coat - 

Dipped the Devil low toward the deck, free hand flourishing the bandana off his face with a rending of fabric; a tousle of hair the color of the hazel woods afire.

Revealed to the air with a whisking away of cloth, flung backwards in place by strong arms still covered by a coat, the Devil blinked into the array of only flames - surely he could only see fire, like any demon - floundering for purchase as his bare feet skittered across the floor. One hand swept under his back to support him [still clasping the black fabric], however, and, from the angle on the  _ Elektra  _ Eddie had [one foot still on the railing and a hand on the rope, frantically craning his neck], he could see the look of total and complete  _ shock  _ that painted the Devil briefly alabaster under his scruff and smattering of freckles. 

It nearly knocked Eddie off into the water in a way he didn’t expect. Like a gut-punch. Like the piercing of a knife, or the firing of a pistol. The air tasted electric; all of a sudden - charged with something explicit and strangely tender. A world holding its breath in the heart of the Atlantic.

And then - bright and giddy - there was a  _ bursting  _ laugh that made the circling seabirds cry out and scatter, flung toward the heavens in celebratory fervor. Like a wedding bouquet. Like a tricorn sent flying. It was absolute joy, in the strangest of ways, delivered by one of the strangest of men:

“You’re  _ adorable _ ,” Quill blurted out, scruffy face awash in the sunniest of smiles. It echoed the golden threads of his beard; the emblems on his jacket. All of him was a gilded light; triumphantly vibrant. “What’s your name?” Eddie stared from the captain to his captive, bewildered. The giddy feeling he’d had was, all of a sudden, fading. He wasn’t sure why. This had tampered with - everything. Made a  _ changeling  _ of the Devil, stolen away to the waters wild and deep. 

So why did this kind of ending feel like it was only the beginning?

There was only the sounds of the turning, churning tides for the longest moment. God Himself made the Heavens and Earth in less time, it felt like. 

Then, almost too small to be heard, came the voice Eddie’d gotten to know all too well these past few months.

“... _ Matt’ew _ ,” the Devil said after a moment more of stunned silence. Eddie felt a chill rush down his spine; the cold slosh of being doused awake after a hazy night’s drinking. “M’name is--is Matt’ew.”

“Matthew,” Peter echoed warmly, drawing the man back up from where he’d dipped him toward the polished floor. “That’s a lovely name. For a lovely  _ ‘devil’ _ , I might add. I’m Peter.” Flustered disbelief took shape on Matthew’s spotty; ruddy face, followed by something unnatural. Far more unnatural than the shadowy smirk he typically wore.

A smile. 

A genuine, God’s-honest smile that sparkled as if he’d caught the stars between his teeth and didn’t dare let go. Maybe he had. Maybe that’s what this was. His hands curled in the vermillion fabric of the captain’s coat, clinging in an echoing tandem. Not letting go. Never letting go. Eddie could see, even at a distance, the way the fabric folded under earnest fingers. 

He was just a man. All of a sudden, unmasked, unmade, he was...mortal. In a way Eddie had not yet seen. And certainly had never even considered possible at all. 

And so it seemed the Milano would undo the Devil -- Matthew -- in a way that Eddie had never foreseen.

It sank into him slowly; bitterly. It twisted through him like squid; trailing ink as it moved through his body. Cold despite the glowing Summer day, Eddie’s hand loosened on the ropes. He swayed, just barely over the water.

Peter Quill leaned down toward the Devil -- toward  _ Matthew _ \-- and finally,  _ finally,  _ then, the other seemed to come alive again - scrambling back and away from the arms still tipping him toward the horizon. He hit the deck with a yelp and scrabbled backwards; upright - propelled by the sudden bouts of laughter coming up from almost every side of the ship. Peter thrust out a hand with a wiggle of fingers, all toothy amusement and scratchy little chuckles. All heard so clearly it was as if Eddie dreamed them up himself; splintering through his overheated mind.

“C’mon, up with you.” He seized the Devil’s hand with care and hauled him to his feet, all but  _ waltzing  _ with him in place before pirouetting on a heel. “Have we met before? The expression says we might’ve. Then again, it’s been awhile since anybody’s looked at me like  _ that _ .” With almost-effortless balance, Quill clasped the Devil by the waist and drew him upward. As if they’d practiced this for decades, Matthew scrabbled to hold onto his shoulder; but wrapped his legs around Peter’s waist, hanging off of him with an expression of refreshed bewilderment. 

“I think I’ll keep you,” Peter announced. The crew took up mutters of disillusionment that were quickly silenced with by a pouty little stare. “He’s to be made welcome here. Remember - we take in all kinds. Devil or not, and besides…” Peter nudged Matthew’s cheek with his nose, and Eddie lost whatever words were being said. They must’ve been good ones, for he could see how the Devil turned from white to red again, before his head tucked itself into the crook of Peter’s shoulder.

Baffling. Absolutely baffling. Peter Quill was hardly Michael wielding a flaming sword, and yet he’d slew all the darkness out of the Devil at once. Made him a man, with a name, with a purpose. That purpose - Eddie didn’t know. It’d been to ruin the ships of the English, to crash them as spectral warnings against the reefs and rocks of the rampant, stormy seas, but now - 

_ Now  _ who was he? What did this mean? Why did Peter hold Matthew close like a lost soul come home at last, and why did the Devil  _ let him?  _ What did  _ any  _ of it mean, and why had  _ this  _ been the outcome? These wild people; with their wild ship and their music and their colors and their dances - who were they, truly?

_ Who are you,  _ asked a voice on the breeze, and Eddie shivered slightly.  _ Coward or fool? _

Both, most likely.

Still clinging to the captain, being drawn off on a tether of starry, good-natured chatter, Matthew stirred - the stunned aftershock giving way, somewhat, apparently, enough for him to pick his head up out of the shoulder of the other man that held him. For a moment, it seemed he’d surpass reason and his eyes would meet Eddie’s own, but instead - 

A hand lifted - fingers uncurling, almost beckoning. Not pleading, not begging, just - suggesting. And Eddie, up on the edge of the ship, almost obeyed - without plank and without question, one foot edging out over midair. Hypnotized, as if unable to look away from the sightless gaze he’d dreamed of, surrounded by moonlight and a malicious little grin.

He stumbled back just in time, catching himself with a curse and a swing of an arm. Peter paused in his departure from the deck, and, ever-so-gently, began to set Matthew back down on his feet. 

The captain’s eyes  _ did  _ meet Eddie’s own, and, for a moment, Peter seemed surprised - then grinned, a knowing, euphoric little  _ a-ha _ depicted on every line of his boyish face. Eddie froze where he was, still partially dismounting from the railing. 

“...Lads,” Peter said brightly, holding fast to the shadow and flame that was his Devil tamed, “see to it that our guest finds a means over here. It seems we’ve got ourselves more than one stray today.” 

Eddie supposed he could’ve stayed put. Could’ve declined, denied, disembarked. Sailed  _ Elektra  _ off himself, running away from the sunrise. 

And yet - 

“Don’t forget,” Matthew called - softly, so softly, Eddie might’ve just only imagined it.  _ Don’t forget. _

_ “Ye still owe me t’e debt of yer  _ **_life_ ** _.” _

The gavel of judgment fell as the musclebound man; his face set in disapproval, slammed the plank down between their ships and drew them all closer together. A chorus of faces greeted Edward then, in varying depictions of expression. 

And in the corner of the Devil’s mouth - still in there, beyond Matthew, even unmasked, it  _ lingered,  _ lurking -  _ burning -  _

The smirk flickered back to life.

And, helpless to fate as any man or Devil alike, Eddie Brock set off toward the  _ Milano _ with dread resignation in his heart.


	5. Hanged Man's Harbor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vengeance may take it too far, but Matthew Murdock, the Devil of the Galley of the Sea, will take it further.   
> The question is - who will go down with him?

###  September 25th, 1701.

Life aboard the  _ Milano  _ was...complicated. In its strange simplicity, it was - boggling.

The crew themselves, confusing conundrums from every corner of the known and unknown world, were not without their charms, Eddie supposed. Though he tried to keep his distance from them, one of them was almost always in his space.

The tall, bark-colored man from the African continent was, from what Eddie understood, the ship’s caretaker. A doctor, of a sort, well-versed in herbal medicines. Not much of a talker, but with a gentle smile that belied a great strength - Eddie had witnessed him tap one of the masts to straighten it, a motion that seemed to require no effort whatsoever. Terrifying, yet somehow, comforting - knowing someone of such immense might chose to be careful and delicate otherwise.

On the other hand, those that looked dainty could be the most deadly. The woman who most commonly wore shades of verdant like they were her secondary skin, for example - Eddie had stumbled into her on the deck during a particularly nasty swell and she’d almost put a dagger between his ribs. “For the offense of touching me,” she told him flatly, “I would take your hand.” They’d shared an uncomfortable extra few seconds cross-examining one another with their eyes - before the woman; Gamora, smiled without humor and sheathed her blade. “But we are not uncivilized.” Whether she meant it more to herself than to him or not, he wasn’t sure. He was just happy to walk away with all his fingers and ribs and everything else intact.

He hadn’t been so lucky with the big man with the blue-green tattoos - on the contrary, Drax had picked Eddie up and slammed him hard into the deck. It was only after he’d caught his breath that he saw where the gunfire from a passing enemy vessel had torn through a sheaf of the sail. Drax, who’d stayed over Eddie while he was down on the deck, jostled him with one meaty hand and boomed, “CLOSE CALL, EH?” before guffawing and getting up to walk off. Eddie’d laid there like a slug for a few moments, trying to find which of the seven seas Drax had sent his breath off to.

On and on it went, with each of Quill’s mismatched crewmates providing some bizarre, protective otherness to him and his vessel. Quill himself, to his credit, was a jovial and charismatic leader - one prone to waltzing across the deck whenever he felt like it, spinning some focused crewmember in his wake. All became whirling dervishes around him; the great water-spout of the sea with a twinkle like gold in his eyes and a levity that buoyed his boots.

He had made every effort to charm Edward C.A. Brock as well - whether it was complimenting him on his attire [“same as I had on yesterday, but alright, captain”] or trying to connect with him [“I heard you have a  _ lovely  _ singing voice!” “well, captain, you’ve heard wrong”]. Even when Quill insisted Eddie could call him Peter, the other man refused; politely. He was “captain” and nothing else, and Peter, dismayed by this as he was, could find no way out or around it.

But he never quit trying to make Eddie feel at home - or at least, seen, in strange and unexpected ways.

Eddie, to his credit, stayed on-task. There’d been a biblical [blissful] three days reprieve wherein the Devil -  _ Matthew _ \- hardly seemed to leave Peter’s side. They’d taken up the cabin together, no questions asked, while Eddie slept below with the rest of the crew, half-crushed under Drax’s bunk as the mighty man snored above him with a fit to shake the beams. 

The scattered sight of Matthew throughout the remainder of the time had been glimpses of him gliding from rope to rope high above, joining Mantis - the petite singer - in the crow’s nest to ‘keep watch’ from on high. They chattered, even laughing, and Matthew had hesitantly laid his head on her shoulder while her fingers traced the side of his neck.  _ Like a starved animal in need of tenderness and sustenance, _ Eddie thought - and the surge of emotion he felt to follow that phrase was nothing short of incendiary. 

He’d caught him again, this time sparring back to back with Gamora - the  _ green lady  _ \- and Drax, who was more than delighted to find a new opponent to fight that wasn’t an enemy ship - “BORING” - or Gamora herself. His raucous laughter outlasted the crack and cry of cannons, while Gamora - silent and lethal - swooped in to snag Matthew with both arms. They rolled across the deck in a tangle of limbs and Matthew wound up beneath Gamora, her hand around his throat and her opposite fist hauled back, preparing to strike. The Devil had  _ smiled  _ his terrible trademark smile and drove a knee up into her gut - before bowling them both over so hard they ran into the side of the ship. Quill had  _ roared  _ with mirth, applauding riotously. Rocket, the smallest of the crew, had gone around collecting his well-earned bets: “I flarkin’ told ya they’d wind up in a stalemate. Drax - pay up!”

Eddie, too annoyed to stay and watch the results of two dazed fighters who had essentially all but knocked themselves out in their haste to beat one another, had simply returned to the area down-below to map out the next ship.  _ Just in case that’s still on the table. _

He’d presented it without a word on the fourth night following their arrival, stiffly standing to attention outside the captain’s cabin until Quill decided to make an appearance. He’d shown up to the door disheveled and cheery as ever, golden hair in waves of disarray like foil or leaf; eyes full of twinkling mischief. Beyond him in the warm confines of the well-lit cabin of a dozen different colors - dangling pieces of multicolored baubles, oddities and trinkets lining well-worn shelves - the one swath of shadow was Matthew, sliding his dark top on over his head with a flash of scars illuminated by stained-glass. Eddie snapped his gaze back to the captain just a little too late - he could tell from the way the smile crooked thoughtfully at the corners.

“Something I can do for you, Eddie?” the captain said lightly - waggling sandy brows in Eddie’s general direction. Heat rose under his face, and Eddie refused to look away from Quill’s visage this time - even as there was a rustle of Matthew turning to face the door as well, sightless soft eyes narrowing in thought. 

“I’ve come to report the next ship fit for taking,” Eddie said stiffly, and thrust the charts he’d drawn up of  _ The Nova  _ and her whereabouts against Peter’s half-covered chest. The captain grunted, scrabbling to gather up the offerings with a bemused expression. 

“Taking?”

“Has he not told you what we do?” Eddie motioned to the Devil with his chin, Matthew soundlessly sliding off the bed to pad toward the door on bare feet, his swaying gait relaxed; not as guarded as it once was. He moved like a dancer, or a great and terrible cat - each movement purposeful and measured. Nothing left up to chance, but languid in presentation. Unhurried.

“Oh, he’s...mentioned what he gets up to,” Quill breezed, holding the maps at arm’s length to better see them in the low light. “These are...really thorough, Eddie, thank you. But the  _ Milano _ is a bit more of a pleasure-seeker than a--”

“The  _ Nova  _ is a federation vessel whose sole purpose is the retrieval of dangerous and desirous exports that have fallen into the wrong hands en route to their actual destinations,” Eddie said flatly, cutting in. “Treasure aligns with pleasure, does it not? Think about it.” Blue eyes burned as he stepped closer to Quill, voice lowering. Matthew, the shadow off to the side of the captain, finally tensed.  _ Good. _

“The Devil gets his due by emptying a ship of men acting under false pretense rather than imperialism, and you and yours get all the goods you could possibly desire in one fell swoop.”

“Don’t listen t’him, Peter,” the Devil said idly, “ _ leathcheann _ doesn’t know when t’quit. If ye like, we can just drop ye at t’e next port.” Quill glanced sidelong with a start, apparently having not expected Matthew to be standing quite so closely. The Devil’s smirk broadened; darkening at the dges. “Consider it yer debt repaid.”

Cold, righteous anger burned inside of Eddie at that - the scorn behind the Devil’s face was  _ so  _ very telling - dismissed as if he didn’t matter, as if he didn’t merit the time of day. Quill glanced awkwardly between them as Eddie’s furious stare shifted from the captain’s face to that of the smiling Devil’s. Clearing his throat, the captain set a hand against Eddie’s chest to walk him back a step or two. Eddie swatted the hand away, moving of his own volition, however.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Fine, fine,” Quill sighed, raising his hands in a  _ what can you do  _ sort of a motion. “Look - I’d be lying if I said this didn’t appeal to me. But we’re not the usual run-of-the-mill ghost-ship. Trying to get any of my men to hide would be like asking the tide to turn.” He chuckled at that, though no one else seemed to know why. “I’d be open to giving this a go, however.” In that, Eddie heard, perhaps for the first time, the lilt of something from home. It softened his consonants, poured honey and dewy water across the preexisting melody that was the mossy-eyed man’s voice. Not quite as thick as Matthew’s, nor as rough and sudden as Eddie’s could be. 

But home it was, nonetheless.

“Consider this a test run. If it isn’t fun, we won’t be doing it again.” The captain’s smile was sunny as could be. “Simple as that. When do we align our course?”

Eddie glanced back at Matthew. The snide laughter had slid away entirely, and, working his jaw, the Devil ground out:

“Tomorrow. By t’e hour o’ six and t’irty.” 

“That’s so  _ early, _ ” Peter exclaimed - then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine, fine. Alright. I’ll see that Rocket is aware of our situation. We’ll make our move then...and see what’s to become of us all.” His smile sharpened as he lifted a hand to the door, and Eddie could make out, for the first time, at such close range - the gleam of eyeteeth too pointed to be natural. That, more than the attempt to lay hands on his person, made Eddie take a step back.

“And  _ leathcheann _ ,” Matthew said, sweeping under Peter’s arm to lean over the threshold toward him. Eddie turned from his attempt to flee and looked back at Matthew, ghostly in the light of the moon now that he’d briefly left the occupancy of perpetual sunlight. 

“God help ye if t’is goes badly,” breathed the Devil.

Frozen for a long time after the door slammed shut in his face, Eddie once more heard the shared murmurs and laughter from before. There was an uncorking of a bottle, the flowing of wine, and only when the clink of glasses came did Eddie take that as his cue to walk away.

There was no sacrament for the damned. The Devil could drink wine and make merry with his demons, though - 

Eddie didn’t qualify.

The next day dawned brisk and steely; the skies overhead brightly reflective. The sea was a smooth glass surface, deep and green as a field of spruce. He’d seen such things, Eddie had, back near home, in Sligo. Conifers cascading down the valleys in a tumble of limbs, overeager evergreen children of the Earth. The homesickness caught him hard below the ribs, and he forced himself to tear his gaze from the grassy surface of the nothingness below.

It was an illusion, like all the things he’d loved and left behind. His mother’s voice didn’t call him home out of the rain. 

Hadn’t for a long time.

The  _ Nova  _ had a blue and gold flag with a star on it - the “True North” of the navy; it was prized among countless officers of the English sort for its swift recovery of missing goods and treasures returned from their wayward journeys. Saal was captain of the ship; a severe and dominant man driven by a profound sense of justice and deliberate focus when it came to the tasks at hand - though feared and hated by most of his crewmates; regarded often as...unstable.

An easy enough target, really. For a test-run of a new method.

“I think the weather’s in our favor today,” Quill remarked with a grin, sidling up alongside Eddie to join him at his spot at the rail. Eddie drew his arms closer to himself and rocked forward on his toes, gaze drifting over the horizon. The brown ship in the distance with its flag of cobalt and gild was clear as ever - even as the wind began to pick up, and the sheen of platinum overhead turned a little bit darker.

“Looks like it’s about to turn, if you ask me, captain,” Eddie remarked. Quill’s hand - much to Eddie’s annoyance - descended to clap him on the shoulder, giving him a squeeze both warm and strong. Eddie shrugged it off after a lingering moment, and Quill chuckled. 

“Aw, Eddie. Where’s your faith?”

As if on-cue, the Devil swung down from the ropes - upside-down, in fact - to face them. The seas below had begun to upend against their bed; a frantic woman searching for something lost. Despite the roiling waves, the Devil stayed steady, half-wound in his webbing of unworked knots. 

“When I give t’e word, I’ll go over. Follow close behind and all will be well.”

“You know you just scared the Holy Ghost out of me, right?” Quill told him - and the Devil smiled broadly, a snort of mirth following that he covered with a cough. Eddie rolled his eyes and looked back away to the ship; well aware of the growling thunder coming in from the West - as were they, strangely enough. 

Coincidence, if convenient - the wind would push them further; faster, with the  _ Nova  _ occupied with their current situation. Quite literally, they were trying to plough against the current. Eddie swore it’d been going the other way mere moments ago…

Up they came to the side of the  _ Nova  _ in record time, however. The Guardians - so they called themselves, though what they guarded was still beyond Eddie’s knowledge - ducked low along the deck, some obscured beneath coverings; all readying their weapons. 

“Now,  _ cladhaire, _ ” Matthew purred, setting foot on the railing after swinging down between Peter and Eddie accordingly, “be a good lad and stay wit’ t’e ship as always.”

“...We won’t be taking the  _ Nova, _ ” Eddie realized, “will we?”

“Why would we?” Quill scoffed, shrugging with both hands at the entirety of the ship they stood on. “We’ve got the best ship in the ocean right here.” 

Mouth pressing together in a hard line, Eddie said nothing - and Matthew, curling a hand around one of the ropes, swung outward - leaping through the air with effortless grace, arcing in a somersault - unsheathing the saber he’d strapped to his back with a slash of pure fire against a lick of lightning.

War exploded between the two decks. The  _ Nova  _ was staffed by men who had fought hard to enter the English Navy, who’d been specifically drafted for their skills, their fighting fierceness and, of course, their loyalty to their nation and their king. 

Eddie watched, queasy, as the bloodshed that followed was profuse and sudden. The Guardians were efficient, their weapons and bodies a woven tapestry sewn by shadows and sound. The sky snarled above them, and each tip of the waves and the rock of the ship promised chaos descending to the seas below.

Matthew was in his prime, however - masked and terrible as ever he could be, blood flashing across his face dulled only by the red of his hair. Saal died shockingly quick at his hands; the tip of his blade slashing through his pretty ceremonial sash, sending the tatters of gold and red spiraling off into the sea below. The wind buried it in the water, all elements rallying to the demise of England’s finest. 

It wasn’t the mission that went poorly, however.

It was the return.

The Guardians raided the ship while Matthew and Quill dealt with the crew, triumphantly maneuvering many an item from Point A to Point B. The  _ Milano  _ stayed steadfast despite the roughening ocean, whitecaps slapping against the sides of the ship that refused to budge. Her anchors kept her steady, and Eddie’s nausea only truly came from watching the  _ Nova  _ buck, spilling corpses into the seafoam; sacrificial in their descent. 

Quill had made it back over as well, but Matthew stayed behind - kicking men off the boat as he went along, the viciousness heaving in his chest nothing short of the ferocity of the storm itself. His teeth bared; white against the black and gray, and, reaching up at the end of it all, Matthew pulled Saal’s body up to the sails, outstretched as if on a cross. 

A  **warning** .

_ Something personal in this one more than the others,  _ Eddie thought, or perhaps the Devil was simply putting on a show for his new compatriots. Whatever the case, what was done was done, and Matthew reached out to grab hold of the railing, feeling for a rope in the air. 

That was when the storm hiccupped in the waves and the Devil, always so certain, lost his assurance. The purchase he had on the rail left him as his fingers slipped just past one of the tethers, and, with a sharp cry, Matthew plunged into the boiling sea.

There was a sudden silence as Quill lunged for the railing alongside Brock, both men burrowed together for signs of Matthew’s expected reappearance. He’d come back up, sputtering and angry, no doubt. He’d return; rising red and glorious from a hell of cold black waters, spitting and sputtering. Wrathful. But he’d return, because nothing could kill the Devil.

Moments passed. Hearts pounded. Eddie’s nausea redoubled and his throat closed. The heighted drop from the deck into the plunging waves looked worse than ever.

“Where is he?” Quill whispered. There was a trace of...guilt in his voice; perhaps, or anxiety. Panic. Eddie thought back to the night he’d nearly tossed himself over the edge of the ship they’d occupied; he and the Devil, all for the sight of some freckles and shockingly soft eyes.  _ Cladhaire. _

One hand snapped up to grab a rope, and, with an almost-inhuman wrench of strength, Eddie unraveled the yards of it, pulling down half the rigging, he felt, in the process. Fumbling hands numbed by slashing rain tied it taut around his middle, and, backing up a foot or two, he started for the rail again, heart still hammering.

“Eddie,” Quill cried out, scrabbling to try and grab him as he shot toward the barrier between himself and oblivion, “what’re you doing? Just - just wait, we need a plan!”

“Peter,” Eddie shouted back over the howling gales, “I’m  _ going _ !”

Before the captain could protest - too shocked by the use of his first name [just as he’d secretly hoped] - Eddie leapt over the side in a hooked motion and brought his hands together for a dive.

He jackknifed into the waves with a burst of icy water, the Atlantic gargling around him as her great maw consumed all light, all hope, all sound. Bubbles burst around him in celebratory victory; catching another quarry for the great deep bed of bones at the bottom of the barrel. The Locker awaited all men who tarried with the sea impolitely. Dead bodies bobbed around him but Eddie sank deeper still, his arms still outstretched, his legs behind him. A perfect arrow piercing the lung of saltwater, letting air flow and belief flee behind him.

Where was he... **_where_ ** \-  **_THERE_ ** .

THERE.

With a great burst of speed, Eddie frog-swept through the water, the breaststroke quick and fervent. Matthew hung suspended in the abyss, drifting ever-downward, not even trying to flounder through the waves. Unconscious; perhaps. Only that. Had to be that. 

Eddie ensnared him ‘round the waist and  _ kicked,  _ **_hard,_ ** rising up, up, up, with a vengeance. His free hand clawed at the rope, trying to find purchase in the tension of it. He’d tug, and…

The end of the rope glided by him in the water. 

He damn well nearly gasped before he remembered where they were, and, clenching his jaw ever tighter still, he kept swimming for the surface of the ocean. Red and black dots danced across his vision as he pulled, and hauled, and keeled, trying to make it. He was  _ going  _ to save them both, Devil be damned - it wasn’t going to end like this. He had a debt still to pay, no matter what Matthew said, that was - all that this was.

A clean slate. A second chance. A resurrection.

They burst through the water and Eddie’s arm tightened around Matthew’s waist as he felt the rest of the rope slip away, drifting down into the darkness below. The lash of the waves was slowing, but the ships were nowhere to be seen. Things were too high, too green, too gray - he clung tighter to Matthew, hearing him retch and cough alongside him with another quick squeeze to his middle.  _ Good - good. _ If he could gag, he was alive.

“Hold on,” Eddie stammered, spitting out seawater as more slapped him upside the face. Matthew’s head sank against his shoulder, weakly nodding. “Just - hold fast, I’ve got ye, Matt’ew…” 

It felt forbidden; to say his name - and perhaps it was.

Because the next thing either of them knew, the final swell of the storm came, and, with a mighty bellow of brine, drove them into submission so sudden and strong it was like the snuffing of a candle.

All light went out for Eddie Brock, and for Matthew Murdock; already perpetually in darkness, oxygen’s brief return was kissed away by the angry and virulent sea.


	6. Damned and Beached

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's amazing what disaster will do to bring people together.  
> Whether or not it's like oil and water, though, still remains to be seen.

###  When the light returned, Eddie found it first on Matthew’s face.

It was below him, head resting on the sand, his crimson-tinted hair a ruby banner of defeat on the shore. Still clinging to him as if afraid he’d disappear once released, Eddie drew back only enough to touch his cheek. A pulse, weak, but stubborn, ticked away beneath his fingers. Coarse thumbs brushed the grit of the ocean away from his freckles, unearthing the treasure trove of a million little dark garnets. 

Every bone in his body hurt, but he was alive; Eddie realized. They  _ both  _ were, despite the wicked waves that’d damn near destroyed them. 

He was just about to heave himself up and off of Matthew when he heard a faint rattle of breath dissolve into a word. Floundering back down and around after risking a look to their surroundings, Eddie dropped his hands to Matthew’s face again, cradling cheeks no doubt scratched by driftwood and sea-debris. 

Sightless eyes dyed golden by the sun fluttered open again, and Eddie felt something in his chest give out, a tension unfettered. His thumbs brushed over Matthew’s features as a man might smooth over the pages of a well-loved book.

The thought twisted and gutted him promptly - almost as much as the murmured repetition of the word, half-sighed:

“Peter…?”

He almost recoiled, but, instead, sat back on his heels, shifting off of Matt and away to give him space to breathe - staying close, and, when he finally tried to pull back his hands, Matt reached for him - fingertips skating under coarse palms.

“...Who’s - why can’I…” He opened and closed his mouth a few times as if straining something on the inside, and, voice guttural with the grind of forcing the words free, Matthew stammered, “I can’--I can’t...hear...I can’t - “ There was a shout, and Eddie quickly covered his mouth with a hand, a frantic scan once again given to the beach they occupied. It seemed empty, but he had no way of knowing.

Apparently, neither of them did.

“Shh--shh,” Eddie hissed, pulling his hand back. Fuck, how was he supposed to help? The man, no Devil at all presently, naught but a frightened, freckly deer with unblinking eyes and a desperate, retching inhale-exhale, seemed beyond aid. There were no grievous injuries visible, but Eddie knew from experience that this didn’t mean they weren’t there. And he was no doctor. 

Probing fingers prodded at ribs and head anyway, though Matthew tensed at the touches. He did not cry out again, albeit Eddie could feel every time he flinched beneath his fingers. One rib seemed sore, and a knee, when touched, was met with a snap of a hand around his wrist before the other man let him go.

“... _ cladhaire _ ,” Matthew said, faint and confused, “is t’at…” his words faded off, and the deep reclaimed Matthew in a new way without water.

_ Great _ .

Eddie himself wasn’t badly-off in terms of injuries, for whatever reason. A few scrapes across his face and sides, rope-burn on his waist and forearm - he’d take it over certain death for either of them. A fact that surprised him, given how close he’d come mere months ago.

_ Ain’t nothing change but the weather, _ he thought to himself - and, on shaky legs, hefted Matthew over his shoulders to make for the shade of the deeper shore.

It was unbearably hot - arid on the island, wherever it was. If Eddie had to wager a guess, he’d say...somewhere closer to Africa than England. Blown so far off-course he doubted - 

No. 

There was no room for doubt. He shunted it off to the side as he laid Matt back on fallen fronds almost long as he was tall. The trees overhead were lush and tangle - good hideaways for snakes, though a quick check produced no vermin. Eddie sat back on the sand and surveyed the man so far removed from his seat of power over the sea it was...shocking.

Matt had looked more human in the past month or so as it stood - smiling; laughing more, uncovered without the mask...more. He hid nothing about himself around Peter; now - not the thin webbing of scars around his eyes; that secondary mask of malcontented skin, nor the way his shimmering eyes saw nothing but shadows in perpetuity. He was an open book in every way; eerie as ever, yet…

Happy. Warm. Almost made whole from whatever thing that rendered him so bitter and vengeful to begin with.

And now, that vengefulness seemed to have struck back against him. Just as it had moved to strike him down off the deck and railings completely. 

Eddie sat beside him for a good long while, and debated what to do.

He couldn’t do nothing. He didn’t know why. It would’ve been a simple thing to leave the man who stirred only to whimper and paw at his ears, clawing as if trying to urge sound back into them, to his own devices. Eddie would’ve perhaps found it more beneficial to do so, though in truth, that, too, would’ve eaten away at him.

So he got up. He walked through the shallower parts of the island brush till he found a source of fresh water, not salt. First order of business. He still had his flask, of all things, and, after emptying it of rum [into himself; waste not, want not], and he filled it twice; back and forth, forcing Matt to drink before he himself did the same.

And then he really got to work.

In all his scholarly studies and his...time abroad, he’d learned a great deal many things. For example, which herb with five points would kill you, and which would ease fever. He knew, likewise, how to strike the water bare-handed and pull fish up from the ankle-deep waves without breaking the surf or scaring off the rest of the school. 

He knew how to start a fire.

Eddie knew how to splint a limb, though, thankfully, that didn’t have to be. He did, however, tear a sleeve to tightly bind together sticks for the roasting of seafood.

And when all was said and done, and night was coming, Eddie sought to help Matthew more directly once again.

“Here,” he muttered - forgetting, momentarily, that Matthew couldn’t hear him. Force of habit, he supposed. Matthew had been so miserable and still he’d all but vanished into the landscape anyhow.

The Devil had jumped something awful at the intrusion of a hand against his shoulder, and Eddie fought with himself briefly before taking the hand opposite in a tender squeeze. His thumb stroked battered knuckles, and, with a sigh, Eddie murmured, “just - trust me.”

Even if Matthew couldn’t hear it, perhaps...perhaps somehow, he’d just  _ know. _

With a hand pinched gently behind Matt’s ears, pulling down on the skin as he tipped the Devil forward - Eddie whallopped him hard on the back.

Next thing he knew, he was sideways in the sand with a stinging pain in his jaw, and Matthew was gagging faintly as water escaped his ears and nose. Eddie rubbed the side of his face and grimaced a little, sitting back upright.

“Wh’appened.”

“I happened,” Matthew snapped, crystal-clear, “and t’ere’s more where t’at--oh.” Eddie stared at him ruefully, still massaging his jaw. Matthew turned his way a little, then frowned. “Right. I...t’anks, I suppose.”

“Don’t mention it,” Eddie muttered, “and don’t - do that again.”

As it stood, of course, they weren’t out of the woods yet - or the ocean.

And the ocean wasn’t out of them, either.

By some miracle [Eddie waking up every so often to tend the fire; possibly, or something holier than this], they made it through the night -- though by morning, Matthew’s skin was hot and tight, and his shivers something violent. 

Eddie kept at the regiment of fresh water and fish, a few of the five-point herbs to dissuade the fever’s spread. He covered Matt in what spare things he could find - fronds, his vest, anything to try and sweat the fever out. As was tradition, Eddie pushed Matt’s trousers up to the knee and tried to draw the heat down from his head; rubbing life back into his feet, warming them with both hands. He tried everything he could think of, and Matthew at least...stayed.

It was - a reminder. A horrible reminder of what he’d seen in their - 

At home.

Back then.

When the fever broke, Matthew had feebly tried to pull himself upright - till Eddie pushed him back down, gave him more water, and some of the fruit he’d collected from the outskirts of the forest. The bananas were met with a disgusted sigh, but devoured anyway - and the herbed fish in its own oils equally disdained, but devoured in slow, careful bites. 

“Best I could do, on short notice,” Eddie joked tiredly. One hand dug into the side of his eye to dislodge the exhaustion. Matthew, finishing off the portion and reaching for the water flask again, said nothing for a moment, then idly murmured,

“You could’ve left me in the ocean to die, fool. Why didn’t you?” Eddie worked the jaw that still ached from the hours - day? - or so ago that Matt had all but broken it with an elbow.

“...wouldn’t have been right.” Matthew stirred at that, studying Eddie without looking at him - an attentive expression despite the eyes full of sunset and daydream. It was a false thing; that belief.

“...Since when do you care about ‘right’, coward?”

“Just - once,” Eddie said abruptly, hand snapping into the air. “Just - once, I’d like you to call me by my name. That’s all I’m asking. Doesn’t have to be more than that. But if we’re going to survive this, if we’re going to get back out  _ there, _ ” he swept an arm toward the thunderous surf crashing against the rocky edge of the island’s far side, “I’d like that. Just the once.”

“...Alright, Edward,” Matthew said, in his velveteen purr; a king’s cloak through a throne room, “since when do you care about right, hm? Finally remembered where you come from, is that it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Eddie said shortly, and Matthew  _ smiled,  _ eyebrows rising.

“No? Then you will be surprised to learn we’ve been going back and forth in our mothers’ tongue since this morning.” Eddie paused, and, mouth opening, closed it again. Blinked, and tiredly rubbed at his face with both hands.

“...I’ll be damned,” he said aloud; in English this time, against the craggy confines of his palms dried by saltwater.

“I’d say ye already are,” Matt commented, then dipped back into Gaelic like a swan. 

“ _ You should rest,  _ leatcheann. _ No sense in staying up when I’m practically on my feet again. I’ll keep an eye on our little fire. And tomorrow morning...you’ll tell me the real reason you saved me. _ ”

“I won’t,” Eddie muttered groggily, dragging his legs up to his chest. He gazed at the fire, determined, and heard Matthew’s lilting laugh chase after him in the dark.

“ _ Oh yes you will. _ ”

His eyes slid into shadowy slumber as he failed to watch the fire, and Eddie descended into dreams that tasted like ash upon his tongue.

As it turned out, when he woke, Matthew was gone - up and about, though easy to follow, and not far at all. Tracks in the sand, though stumbling and swaying, were deep. Eddie followed them like a man drawn on to mass by the tolling of the bells. 

He’d gone down to the the edge of the forest, and had stood there listening. The sun had dyed his freckly skin a frightful shade of pink, and Eddie’d been forced to snap the thick fronds of the water-plants to get them to ooze the oils of recovery. He’d slathered them on Matthew - much to the Devil’s distaste [ _ “this texture is God-awful!” _ ] and himself in an effort to protect them from the blistering skies. 

He’d made up the fire again from its coals and kept it burning. It was the equivalent of hope staying alive. Of...faith. 

_ Where’s your faith, Eddie? _

It was nothing but arguing with Matthew; concerning anything from the flavor of the fish [“terribly sorry this isn’t a FUCKING London INN!”] to the temperature at night, which - had its own solution, but didn’t come without its share of grumbling.

“ _ You’ve been ill, _ ” Eddie informed Matthew in Gaelic, too tired and grouchy to keep up the pretense of accent-less English, “ _ just lie still for a while and be quiet. _ ” This he spoke into the Devil’s ear, and the fussing, writhing creature of freckles and sniffles finally fell still in his arms. He was pressed to Matthew’s back, just - holding him under the tattered fronds in their makeshift shelter against the treeline. The warmth between them was enough to make it through the night once Matthew allowed Eddie to do this - their legs hooked together and Eddie’s arms pressed around him, trying to keep the fever away. With his nose buried in locks brighter than ever by the constant barrage of sunshine, Eddie swore he could catch the scent of bonfire more than the sea. 

It soothed him off to sleep more than he would’ve liked, with an ease that had to be something most wicked.

Matthew seemed to still have water to expel, and the cold had left his senses clogged and frustratingly dull. Common sense had apparently never worked, for despite his best efforts, Eddie found Matthew trying to recklessly do anything from climb trees to go deeper into the jungles of the island - things that almost always resulted in Eddie rushing after him to save him from himself. Or at least, his foolhardiness. 

“ _ And you’ve been calling ME the fool. _ ”

“ _ Watch what you say lest I take your tongue. _ ”

“ _ You’ll need to stop sneezing first if that’s the case. _ ”

Despite their squabbling and Matthew’s reckless insistence on throwing himself into being more active again so soon after their little descent into the depths, they made do. A couple days passed and they were almost themselves; Eddie with less pain in his bones, and Matthew more agile once again. 

“ _ If they don’t come back for us, _ ” Eddie started to say, on their sixth night on the island - 

“ _ When, _ ” Matthew cut in coolly, finishing off a drink of water before passing the flask back to Eddie. “ _ When my boy comes for me. _ ” The words felt like a twist inside of him, something cold and matter-of-fact, till Matthew softened unexpectedly. “ _ For us. _ ” Eddie glanced up from studying his well-worn flask, and, after a moment, took a swig of water, offering it to Matthew again.

“ _ We will not be left here, _ ” Matthew informed Eddie calmly. “ _ We will see them again. _ ” He paused at that, brow furrowing, and one hand lifted to idly trace the ridges around the side of his right eye. The silent realization was met with a terse sigh, and the Devil dropped his hand - 

Only to find it caught in Eddie’s own, the fingers entangling. Eddie clasped him steady, giving him the briefest squeeze. 

“... _ we will, _ ” he agreed, because Matthew seemed to need to hear it, and in the nighttime glow of stars and flame, Eddie swore the man almost smiled.

On the seventh day, there was no rest - an inverse of biblical proportions when the fire on the beach nearly blazed out of control, but Eddie woke in time to get it back to operational standard. Matthew had vanished, and, for a moment, Eddie feared he wouldn’t be able to find him - now that he was that much healthier, his footsteps had been harder to follow - misleading spirals, lighter on his feet, using the trees of the edge of the woods to maneuver around undetected. Some sort of terrible spider-monkey; or lemur - an animal uncaged in an environment it was unused to. 

It was only when the lapping waves were interrupted by a slapping splash that Eddie realized; horrified, where Matthew was, exactly.

He took off at a sprint to the water, boots already off and shirt thrown to the side. No time for anything else. He’d be damned if he didn’t have something dry for later, though. Matthew lay facedown in the waves, his arms outstretched, and for one horrible moment, Eddie feared the man was finally well and truly dead.

He swept into the bobbing water and scooped Matthew under the waist, however - and was met with a thrusting flail of soaked limbs and all but hissing dismay:

“ _ Just what do you think you’re doing? Put me BACK! _ ”

“NO,” Eddie snapped, English overriding the Gaelic in a fit of fury - though the Leitrim lilt returned full-force as if every ancestor he’d never known came out of the woodwork for a scolding, “are ye trying to  _ DIE _ , Matt’ew?” Blinking rapidly, shaking the wet hair out of his face, Matthew started to say something - but stumbled as a wave rocked against him, sending him crashing into Eddie a little bit more. The other man’s arm tightened around his middle, and Eddie clenched his teeth, staring down at the shivering figure still so defiant in all his damp disarray. 

“No,” Matthew shot back finally through chattering teeth, “I’m’tryin’ t’teach myself how t’ _ live _ !”

“Funny way'uv goin' about it!” Eddie snapped hotly, “Facedown mere feet from a riptide, wit' t'e waves rushin’ back in.” Matthew began to wriggle aggressively; a minnow desperate to return to the water. Eddie held him fast, glowering down at him. “You don't have to do everyt'in' yerself, ye know! If you'd just  _ waited _ …”

“An’ did what?” Matthew said snidely, still trying to wrest free of Eddie in vain, “wait fer ye t’hold my hand?” Fueled by spite and not a little wrath, Eddie kept one arm locked around Matthew’s middle before the other seized his hand in his own, snatching it up promptly. 

“Aye, fine lot of good holdin' a hand will do wit' swimmin',” Eddie barked, and Matthew blinked once more. “Stubborn, daft bastard. Just…” His grip loosened, but didn’t drop away entirely. The water curved around them in a roiling sweep, lapping in and out. An exhalation of turquoise drink. Eddie inhaled to match the ebb, and let his breath go on the flow. In. Out. In. Out. 

Little by little, Matthew started to fall into it - surprising, really. He ceased squirming in Eddie’s grasp, too. A small miracle.

“Feel how t'e water is movin'. Under yer feet. Start t'ere,” Eddie murmured. In the distance, he heard the boom of incoming thunder. Some storm on the way, from the way the sea was shifting. Gulls cried out nearby, swooping and skiving off the rocks to break open shelled creatures for breakfast. Matthew’s fingers twitched in his own, deliberating something. 

“Just keep breat’in’.” 

“... _ why did you save me _ ?” Matt asked, his Gaelic like a lullaby.  _ Cén fáth ar shábháil tú mé? _

Eddie didn’t answer, instead turning in place to put his back to the rest of the ocean, keeping Matthew in the shallows. Little fishes swam by, along with a tangle of old netting, and Matthew jerked away from it, pressing closer to Eddie, nearly losing his footing in the process. Still, Eddie held onto him, keeping him from drifting away.

“When is a  _ cladhiare  _ not a  _ cladhaire? _ ” Matthew asked, ire sparking back up both from his show of fear and from Eddie’s continuous silence. “Why did ye dive in after me? Ye could’ve been rid of me. I KNOW you wanted to kill me, Eddie, so why -”

“Feel the waves move around you, you’ll know which way the current’s going,” Eddie droned, raising his voice in an effort to drown Matthew - out, but never under. His hand was clammy in Matt’s own, perspiration tangling with salty streaks. Matthew ground his teeth in irritation and pushed him - Eddie staggered back and they both nearly wound up under the waves, though he held his ground with difficulty. “HEY!”

“Tell me,” Matthew taunted, and Eddie, glaring, finally began to pry his hands free - but this time it was the Devil who held fast, clutching him something fierce, with more strength than he’d had in  _ days. _

“ _ Tell me t’e real reason ye saved me, Eddie! _ ” the Devil burst out - and, too fed up with his persistence, Eddie Brock promptly seized the other under the chin and, leaning in, pressed a searing kiss to the seam of his mouth, still holding him fast around the waist otherwise.

For a moment, they were suspended, the dazzling light of the morning a heavenly chandelier in sequins lancing around them off the water and shining stones. The cove kept a diamond glow about it, capturing them in its multifaceted angles. Eddie tipped forward so that he could dip Matthew back in his arms, and, to his shock, he felt Matthew’s lips part for him with a slow and weary sigh.  _ Yes,  _ it said silently, the Devil’s hands rising up to clasp his face despite the scruff and the sand still stuck to it. 

_ Yes, yes, yes. _ Eddie forgot to breathe, sinking into the warm red dark of his Devil’s mouth. He wanted to drive them back under the water in some wild immersion of life and death, limbo between all things, where nothing mattered, to lay Matthew down in the sand and ravage his neck and his body with jeweled bruises, to turn all his arguments into laughter like an alchemist of the soul, and God forgive him, but he’d wanted to kiss that mouth since the first time it’d sent that contemptible smirk his way - 

The boom in the distance came again, and Eddie picked his head up reluctantly, nose brushing Matthew’s own. The tongue chased after him; a playful serpent, and he dipped back in for one more taste as Matthew’s hands tightened on him, dull nails dragging back toward his hair. 

No storm greeted them on the horizon, Eddie realized, half-lidded eyes chasing the line where the water met the sky. Instead, there, setting off a cannon to greet them, was none other than - 

“T’e  _ Milano, _ ” Matt murmured against Eddie’s neck, pulling back from where he’d nipped at his jaw. Eddie almost dropped him in the waves, but instead, began to slowly withdraw. He set Matt back upright, hand on his face falling away - and the clasp on his waist followed, though his pinkie hooked one of Matt’s own to tug them back toward the solid earth.

An ache settled in, curling up with feline exhaustion in his chest. There were whistles and shouts in the distance, and, even as he guided them both back to the safety of the ground, Eddie felt the Devil turn away from him to raise his hand in greeting.

They were saved.

Just as he said they’d be.

_ So why was it,  _ Eddie asked himself, as he and Matthew [speaking not at all on the subject that had just occurred] settled back down on the beach to wait,  _ being damned felt so much better than this? _


	7. The Devil's Dance Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The songs used in this chapter should be embedded in the text, but in case they aren't, they're "I Got Me a Woman" by Ben Caplan and "Tired Hands" by Bison! Please enjoy the secondary recovery period of Matthew Murdock post-seashore rescue via the Milano and her beloved captain & crew.  
> oh and Eddie Brock is there too.  
> gbye

###  It took almost a full week to get back on his feet, but once upright, Matthew refused to stay down.

He’d run the full length of the ship by the third day, flying through the ropes and wrapping around the sails with the precise ease of a bat out of Hell. Quill had watched with fascination [after an initial bout of caution that was half-hearted at best - somehow he knew better than to dissuade the Devil’s decisions], attempting to keep up upon occasion. It was only when Matt nearly upended out of the crow’s nest that Peter suggested a break.

“And not one of your pretty wee bones, either,” he added mock-chidingly, a finger up against Matt’s nose. The Devil had grinned in spite of himself, and agreeably let himself have a morning devoid of further exercise. He’d all but scorched the floor in his hustle and bustle, regardless, after all.

The crew had been delighted at the return of their two lost souls. Matthew had been subjected to a gently-crushing hug from Quill, a not-so-gently-crushing hug from Drax, Gamora socking him in the shoulder, and Mantis cradling his face before he was passed off to Rocket and Groot for examination in the doctor’s quarters [which was more or less a curtain and a table in a corner of the ship].

Eddie had watched the relief flood across the captain’s face as he let Matthew leave with those who could best help him - and jumped only a little when Quill swung back his way, overzealous eyes so bright and joyous they practically shone like galleons.

“You saved him, Eddie,” Quill informed him. There was an air of reverence to the way he said it that made Eddie’s skin blaze and crawl, uncomfortably warm. He rubbed his face in an effort to hide the result of that warmth from view; not wanting to blush over something so - so stupid. And false. He’d just...kept Matthew alive on the beach. Fed him, watered him, kept him warm, tried to deflect his self-destruction…

“It was nothing,” Eddie decided abruptly. The captain blinked; beguiling gold-leaf eyes cooling to the color of new leaves and freshly-tilled earth. The changing of the sun in the heavens; a new angle. His head cocked to one side, then the other way, considering - and, after a moment, Quill shook his head and stepped closer, one hand lifting. Eddie tensed, but all Peter did was rest his hand in the air between them, fingertips mere centimeters from Eddie’s sunburnt chest, the shirt he wore in tatters from the breaking of waves.

“It’s something,” Quill said, softly earnest. “To him. To me. To us. More than you know, Mr. Brock…” The hand started to fall away, and, for some reason, like he wouldn’t with most things - Eddie couldn’t let it go. 

He caught Quill’s hand in his own, briefly, and the captain; startled, held still. The seagulls were circling and crying, the crew was chattering [squabbling] among themselves, and for a moment, those were the only sounds alongside the creaking of the boat being kissed by the currents.

As if to echo them, Eddie drew Peter’s hand to his lips and kissed the ring he wore - not quite his knuckles, but the little amethyst stone inlaid against onyx and gold. It was shaped like a star; the most curious little gem - and it stayed cool against Eddie’s lips as he peered up at the captain. The expression on Peter’s face had changed from encouraging to downright shocked, and Eddie, withdrawing after a beat, inclined his head before turning to go.

“Eddie,” Peter called after him, and he halted without turning, working his jaw. From out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flurry of movement, the captain hurrying a step or two closer with a ripple of his coat - this one a sky-blue, not his rust-colored jacket at all. He looked as though he’d fallen from the heavens today - fitting for how at peace Matt had been to return to the ship. What had happened on the shore stayed there, the little island hoarding their secrets in the sun.

“Will you still let him chase the ships?” Eddie asked, when Peter took too long to say what he was going to say. There was a faint sigh of annoyance, and still, Eddie refused to pivot to face Peter, his hands drifting behind his back to fold, mock-militant. Straightening upright, Eddie waited for a response, letting the light in the heavens beat down against his stinging face.

“I don’t know. I’d say yes, but - I don’t really fancy the idea of him putting himself further at risk again. Not so soon after getting him back, at any rate.”

“If he’s not to do this anymore,” Eddie said over his shoulder, “then drop me at the nearest port when we come within range, as he’ll have no more use of me, Captain Quill.”

“...Eddie,” Peter implored, and this time, when he reached for him, his hands found Eddie; strong and sure - spinning him in place to face him. The fingers settled on his upper arms, throttling him a little. At once, the record-keeper tensed, blue eyes darting between the captain’s steady grip and his even steadier face. Peter had never looked so certain of anything, and Eddie found the assurance in his stare that much more unsettling. 

“You don’t have to…” A shrug of digits without letting go punctuated the words, “put coal to his fire to be of ‘use’, if that’s what you’re so concerned about.”

Eddie gazed into the face of a good and golden man, living wild; free without retribution, penance, or sin - a man who’d no doubt surely seen his unfair share of tragedies or agonies - and almost laughed. In the afternoon glow, Peter Quill was crowned with hope. Eddie, chained by the grasp of his hand, almost wanted to believe he, too, could move forward into that optimistic light.

But he sank back from it. Shrank away from it. With a careful dislodging of Peter’s hold, Eddie shrugged him off and headed for the shadows of the back end of the ship down below, this time not breaking stride as he spoke.

“If the Devil’s been saved, then there’s no place for damned souls like me.”

Peter, bewildered, watched the man in the rags disappear down to the ship’s belly, his hands sliding back to his sides. Twisting his ring after a moment or two; brow furrowing, Peter rocked on his heels and ambled off, murmuring to himself.

“That seems just a touch dramatic, if you ask me…”

“No one did, Peter,” Drax offered helpfully. The captain made a face, but kept meandering away - trying to coax a scheme to hatch in his mind that might yet put a smile on Eddie’s face, while getting Matt to heal and breathe without invoking devastation.

“I’ve...got an idea. I think,” he murmured, turning to Mantis as he passed her by. Upside-down, dangling by her legs off a part of the ship’s sail, his dear friend smiled at him without opening her eyes. 

“I think I might know your plan.”

“You usually do,” Peter said warmly, and pecked her on the forehead before holding out his arms. Loose-limbed, she somersaulted upright and over, landing neatly in his embrace. Lithe arms twined around his neck as he carried her off, already comforted by the closeness they shared. “But I’m going to need your help…”

“I was so hoping you’d say that, Peter.”

Matthew’s recovery was less than it might’ve been otherwise, Rocket grudgingly noted the second time Eddie checked in - Matthew had all but fully recovered by the time the ship had found them, after all. He was subjected to the most ghastly and smelly of herbal remedies in the form of teas; courtesy of Groot, but he imbibed them nonetheless with minimal amounts of shuddering. Like everything he did, Matthew pushed forward with unfettered determination. He was a storm swathed in black, his clothes mended with red thread - the only Mantis had at present - like forks of lightning in a midnight sky. 

When he moved, it was thunderous at first, too. He had to learn again how best to adjust his weight to be soundless, to move with more acrobatic prowess as he ate, regained his strength, and felt that strength move throughout his body. Wires of sinew needed to be stretched again; like bowstrings of old - loosing the arrow of his body to fly off in any given direction. 

He was horribly impatient with himself - something Eddie already knew, and secretly relished to see the crew around him experiencing likewise. Gamora in particular encouraged Matthew most bodily - by cuffing him around the neck when he was overdoing it, and all but tossing him into the sacks of grain and rice they kept below. His look of absolute disbelief the first time it happened had been priceless. Eddie memorized it, as he did all things, and that was when he realized something.

His dates and times had all but disappeared from his work. It was as if the  _ Milano  _ existed outside of the Roman calendar; consisting only of daydreams and drifting waters. Matthew, restless, pacing the decks and taking himself through the motions of his ‘work’. Peter, humming up at the helm, steering them out and away from dangers like whirlpools and inclement weather so easily - as if he knew before they arrived what they would be. And Eddie, with his books filling up with nonsense. Like fairy-stories of colorful folk who found themselves drawn together to the task of living freely. 

The week passed all its days with triumphant colors save one - the Devil didn’t speak to him. But Eddie supposed it was just as well - he made no effort in the same vein. What was there to say, he supposed? Matthew was back where he belonged, and now, all Eddie had to do was figure out where he would go next - with or without fulfilling his sinful quest. 

In the meantime, he watched the way the week moved in vignettes - Matthew upending Gamora to show he was fine; Peter praising the effort [and promptly being threatened by the lady in green who offered to show him the seabed below], Drax pointing out how close to a port they were, Eddie playing a game against Rocket [something the smaller man called  _ backgammon,  _ which Eddie was absolutely terrible at], and, at the end, a party.

“Can’t have a recovery without one, I say,” Peter announced brightly at the end of a long day of fishing off the coast of a crescent-shaped island. Eddie had given him a long look of confusion, but the captain had only smiled. “Since we’ve recovered our real treasures, after all.” Confusion morphed into mortification, and Eddie had taken to staring at the deck of the ship as if utterly fascinated. Matthew, to his credit, only smiled and rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. He was, as ever, strangely used to Peter’s ridiculousness by now. Eddie thought perhaps he’d boarded the ship used to it, though he didn’t know why.

It wasn’t a mystery meant for him to solve, he supposed.

He almost declined the party - but it was difficult to say no when the entirety of the crew was set to be stomping and making music above him if he retired to the realm below. Drax had taken the opportunity to recruit him to assist with the meal, no less - Eddie and he rolling up their sleeves together to make use of the fruit, grain, and other goods. Black rice was boiled and seasoned with sprigs of mint and curry leaves; accompanied by chunks of watermelon. Drax split coconuts with his two great swords; his booming laughter all but blowing up into the sails to send them skimming across the waves that much faster. Eddie wrapped salted meat in banana leaves with dates and left it to roast on the coals of the fire in the stove, and before dusk had fallen, the meal was done.

Taking it up to the tables they’d brought onto the deck of the ship, Eddie was startled to find how much of it had changed. Paper lanterns strung between the masts, sails dripping with chimes and paper charms - everything aglow; freshly-bathed in their own makeshift sunsets ten thousand times over. Mantis was perched primly on the top part of the deck, her legs dangling over the lower, humming and swaying from side to side as if relishing the rainbow. Groot, stoic as ever, seemed more serene - peacefully placing a few stools down by the table before loping away to retrieve an instrument he’d lain by the stairs. Rocket was the only one truly fussing, muttering and tinkering with a compass beside Gamora, her arms on the rails as she gazed out to sea.

“You know, Eddie,” Peter said in his ear [nearly causing him to upend the veal he’d carried up from the galley], “there are other clothes. You can borrow some of mine, if you like.” Eddie shot the captain a confused expression, then looked down at the threadbare, faded remains of his garments. Embarrassment set in, hot under his tattered collar. “I just mean, you should - look nice tonight, if you want,” Peter added, gingerly extracting the plate from Eddie’s hands, brow furrowing.

“You don’t have to...punish yourself, or anything.” It was the same tone of kindness he’d taken when last they’d spoken directly, and it made something twist in Eddie’s gut again that he had no name for. His jaw set - he had no need for pity - 

But then he looked at Peter,  _ really  _ looked at him, in his turquoise coat and his soft brown shirt, his fine copper necklaces, the ring, his elegant boots and black trousers - 

And then there was Matthew.  _ Matthew. _

Eddie’s eyes finally found him, and - it was no wonder he hadn’t seen him at first. He was lounging behind Gamora,  _ lounging,  _ with his elbows on the railing of the ship, his head tossed back as if to taste the air. His freckles had settled on tanner skin; the sunburn giving way at last. His hair was longer and redder than ever; the edges of it positively tongues of fire. He was  _ smiling,  _ letting the wind ruffle across his face. Gamora was talking to him in a low voice, and she was smiling, too, shockingly enough. 

And most important, perhaps, of all, was that Matthew wasn’t in all black. While his clothes had been mended and cared for, he’d swapped them out for something else - more of Peter’s, Eddie presumed. The coat he wore was more of a beige color; with fine eggshell buttons, over a vest of burnt sienna. A fine, crisp blouse beneath it was moonlight-white, all buckled together with a fine plate of stamped silver at his waist, over dark trousers. The only thing the same were his boots, well-worn and repaired, but entirely his. They were a million shades of the mud and grime and blood he’d trod in, and he refused to relinquish them. They kept him steady. Eddie supposed he could feel things more easily through them. One always could, when poor and with poor soles to boot.

As if sensing eyes on him, Matthew turned slightly in his direction, head lolling forward. Snapped from his reverie like a fish out of the water, Eddie nodded tersely to Peter before turning on his heel to head for the captain’s quarters.

He might as well look presentable. For no one. For this stupid party. To celebrate Matthew’s return, not his. He felt so bloody foolish…

It took Eddie so long to decide what to wear he thought he might’ve heard a few of the crew call for him by name, but - finally, he landed on something he hoped Peter wouldn’t miss - a leather vest that had itself seen better days, but with pewter buttons that still had their shine. A pale blue shirt more on the silvery side than that of the actual sky Peter painted himself in - just shades of gray, more than anything else. They were clean, and warm, however - Eddie breathed in the scent of the captain and his ship; all cedar and sentiment, before daring to reappear, less comfortable now than he had been in the appearance of a pauper.

[ The party was already underway when he arrived, walking back down the lantern-lined steps toward the lower deck. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nWQ-dq2cu5U) Mantis was giggling, spinning under Peter’s hand as Groot, Rocket, and Drax played instruments, Gamora standing nearby with Matthew, clapping along to the music. The Devil himself had his arms crossed, but he was laughing again - relaxed and  _ young,  _ so young when he laughed that it was remarkably strange. 

Mantis’s bare feet across the deck moved lightly - her hand upheld by Peter as the captain sang to her, waltzing and shifting over the floor in an effortless way; a banter of limbs. The music carried them backwards and forwards - Peter walking Mantis up onto one of the little stools, turning, and sweeping her up and off, holding her aloft as though she weighed nothing. The lady was beaming, her arms outstretched, and as she was spun back to the floor, she caught Peter’s hands and hopped sideways, then back again - whirling around him before breaking from his grip to circle him; clapping in time to the music.

It was a song Eddie knew, he realized - one he hadn’t heard in quite a long time, however. Not since his nights at the taverns of privateers far from home, or about to be. It was meant for love; and hope, and the promise of return. Someone to come back to. Someone to sing for.

Wordless, he mouthed along:

_ I got me a woman, she is so fine _

_ I got me a woman, she keeps me in line _

_ I got me a woman, gone far away _

_ I got me a woman, she'll be back some day... _

Peter, his candlelit hair caught on the breeze, captured her hands again and this time, jumped with her, back and forth - before whipping Mantis out, her skirts an unfurling banner of butterfly wings, tapestry patchwork and hand-stitched fairytales. She bowed to the group before prancing back to Peter, leaping into his arms. Rocket, on the fiddle, dipped forward to drive the melody home.

“ La da da da da da,” Peter trilled along, skipping a few steps to the side with Mantis in tow, then back again, “la da da da da da…” As the song droned to an end, Peter dipped her backwards - and Mantis let her arms fall, graceful as a stage dancer with her limbs outstretched toward the deck, one last giggle on her lips. As she was drawn upright, Peter kissed her knuckles with gratitude - Gamora reaching out to draw Mantis back against herself for a brief embrace, walking her off to the table for rest and replenishment. Eddie, hanging back in the dark beyond the lanterns against where the lower deck met top, folded his arms, watching. Closely so,  [ as the music changed ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXS_Y8wAg-A) .

“No, no -” Matthew was snickering, holding a hand up to deflect Peter initially - the captain wheedling with him for a dance. “I don’t - Peter, I don’t  _ dance… _ ”

“Sure you do,” Quill said brightly, taking the reluctant hand in his own before drawing Matt away from the mast he’d been propped against. “I’ve seen you. Just that your feet are usually a hundred feet off the ground when you do. Come down here and dance with me!”

Rolling his scarred and sightless eyes a little, Matthew shook his head again - but obliged, as no one could say no to Peter Quill. All their whispered arguments regarding whether or not the Devil’s duties would continue this week seemed like water under the bridge, from what Eddie could tell - their disagreements about Matthew’s wellbeing notwithstanding, they were as close as ever - to the point where within two or three steps, the Devil was able to match the pace of Captain Quill, cavorting around to the jumping joy of the music, fluidly exchanging hand to hand, nose-to-nose as they spun in place, the traditional dances of fine halls and fanciful evenings effortless to them, somehow. Peter was only signing softly, now, just for Matthew - and Rocket picked up the slack, apparently fond of the song himself, though his reedy voice left something to be desired - fiddle, harp, and percussion took up the need for bolstering. Mantis, her thirst and hunger slaked, plucked twinkling notes from a tiny, barbed instrument she’d produced from nowhere. Like magic.

_ All of it,  _ Eddie realized,  _ like magic. _

Though perhaps none more so than the way Peter and Matthew clung to one another, even as they passed back and forth across the makeshift dance floor. The Devil shifted under Peter’s arm, pulled flush against him, and the other man, nose briefly buried in crimson-tinted waves, glanced up - meeting Eddie’s eyes directly. Eddie went still, though he’d only been moving past where the lanterns hung in an effort to skulk towards the food. Peter smiled a knowing little smile, and, with little warning whatsoever, spun Matthew out to careen toward Eddie, a comet sent stumbling through the atmosphere.

Immediately, Eddie swooped in to catch the Devil - though he realized, belatedly, Matthew was already on the way to righting himself. Their hands entangled; Eddie’s clumsy and clammy, Matthew’s strong and scarred by ropes and God only knew what else. Their chests brushed and the heat of the closeness; sudden as it was, clashed between them. 

“Is this a dance or not?” Gamora called tonelessly - no doubt prompted by Peter himself. Finding it hard enough to breathe, much less consider dancing, Eddie started to stammer an apology and pull away, but Matthew held him fast.

“ _ A day wit’out words makes me wonder, _ ” Matthew murmured to him, not quite singing, but melodic enough to pull Eddie in; hungry - for food, for...this, whatever it was. “ _ If yer fingers _ …” a squeeze passed between them, “ _ grew tired _ …” Ink bled from hand to hand, and Matthew, smiling as if satisfied by that, pivoted them in place, pulling Eddie out into the warm glow of the lanterns on the deck.

And there they danced - Matthew putting into every gesture that which he hadn’t been able to put to words; Eddie, simultaneously, stripped of his defiance and denials. They waltzed, if it could be called that, in spritely tandem - more asynchronous than the Devil and the good captain, but together nonetheless. Little by little, Eddie felt the horror and the exhaustion of his situation fade away, washed off in the basking glow of the decorations. The sweet scent of food and the salty breath of the sea, and the way Matthew felt in his arms - nothing compared, nothing at all.

It felt like...forgiveness, in a way. It felt like something  _ more.  _ He hesitated to call anything holy, much less this, but -

In the softer expression of Matthew’s freckled face, Eddie swore he saw something. Not reverence, not gratitude - just...something. Small and sincere.

Acceptance. That was what it was. Acceptance; taking him at face value, returning him to somewhere Eddie almost felt like he...belonged.

Their feet nearly tangled when that realization drove him to stumble, and Matthew chuckled outright, catching him in an embrace; holding him close. Startled in spite of himself as he realized the music had ended moments ago, the conversation now the only thing serving as background noise. The Devil drew back when Eddie did, though slower than he - Eddie scrambling nervously to slither out of Matthew’s arms.

“That - thanks.” It was the only thing he could think of to say, one hand driving up along the back of his neck where the skin burned hotter than the beating it’d taken from the sun. Matthew arched both eyebrows, bemused, and pursed his lips.

“Ye’re...welcome, Eddie.”  _ Eddie.  _ The sound of his name made his stomach jump. It felt - too nice, all of a sudden, too natural and comfortable to be true. 

“I should, um -” He made vague motion to the table with his hands. “Oh - right, you can’t-”

“I...got t’e concept,” Matthew said, a note of quiet exasperation back in his voice. “Just - relax fer a moment, would ye? I’m not goin’ t’bite ye. We’ve not spoken since-”

“I know,” Eddie cut in quickly, “and - we needn’t. It’s not necessary.”

“Not  _ necessary? _ ” Matthew’s tone went from bemused to outright annoyed. “Where d’ye get off decidin’ what is and what isn’t  _ necessary _ ,  _ leathcheann tú? _ ” 

“Ah, there it is,” Eddie shot back, latching onto the opportunity for an argument - it felt better than whatever this was, too pleasant, too close, too - 

“Okay, okay,  _ okay, _ ” Peter cut in, a hand dipping between their chests to lightly push them further apart. “That’s enough of  _ that. _ Gentlemen, let’s go break some bread before the weevils set in. We’ve got to keep up our strength if we’re going after another ship tomorrow.” Eddie shot around to look at Peter directly, startled, though Matthew kept himself trained in Eddie’s direction.

“Ship?” Eddie croaked, darting a gaze over Peter’s face as if searching for the jest. For once, he found none. Just the vague raise of an eyebrow and the tiniest of nods. “You - you want a ship.”

“‘Course we do, Eddie,” Peter told him, and the hand that’d kept him at bay from Matt’s throat turned smoothly to tap him on the sternum with a couple of fingers. His smile was lopsided; back on his mouth. “Can’t have you sitting around moping forever, can we? It’s that or port, and…” His digits tugged the leather vest into place. “Quite frankly, I’m disinclined to let you go just yet. I know Matty here feels the same.” 

“Matty?” Eddie asked, baflfed.

“ _ Matty? _ ” Matthew echoed, downright skeptical.

“Matty,” Peter confirmed, patting Matthew’s chest in turn. “Let’s just go eat. We can discuss details over dinner. Dance more after, if you like. Provided it’s in a gentlemanly way, and not at all with fisticuffs.” His brows waggled; and like gold melted down for finery, he oozed off to the table, slick as you please.

Left to stand apart from one another, tension still recoiling within them, Devil and man surveyed one another to the best of their abilities. 

Eddie opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came to mind or to mouth. Matthew waited a beat longer, head cocked to one side, and spoke instead.

“Ye truly owed me not’in’, Eddie. But ye chose to save me.  _ Twice, _ ” he added. “T’e island was its own share of burden. I won’t be forgetting t’at anytime soon.” He stepped closer as if to say something more, but Eddie ducked away, putting distance between them again.

“Don’t mention it,” he muttered, forcefully shutting a door he hadn’t realized he’d left open. His heart closed like a fist; squeezing. “Come on - let’s just..go eat, like he said.”

Matthew let him walk away first to the table, hands clenched by his sides, before; wordless again, he walked to the far end of the table opposite,  _ finally  _ sitting down to break bread and be bathed in all the light, the color, and the good he couldn’t see.

But he felt it deeply.

And he felt it in Eddie, too.


	8. Questions Yet Asked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What dark truths are led to the light of the fires by night? What pound of flesh does the Devil take as his own?   
> And what sins can be forgiven, even by the supposedly wickedest of men?

###  Lanterns swung as the ship creaked and rocked; cradled by the cooling sea.

They were sailing on toward Winter, when the ocean would be at its most merciless, and the suggestion to dock at port and lay low for a while was met with an irritable flurry of Irish before Matt had vanished into the dark that night. 

The Guardians and their captain had reaped a successful bounty from the last couple of boats - smooth sailing; quite literally, without a storm to upend the process in sight. Just rolling fog at the most convenient of times - or a blindingly hot day that had everyone on the ship opposite them drooping like flowers in desperate need of water. 

Weather patterns that did not at all align with Eddie’s predictions, but he figured, if the Good Lord above had means to evade man’s knowledge, who was he to try and understand? When he’d muttered as much to himself, scrawling a few things down in the margins of his journal, Eddie swore he’d caught the smug crook of a smile at the corner of Peter’s mouth. 

There’d been plenty of supplies aboard  _ The Accuser,  _ mostly weapons and gunpowder, but dried fruit and meat as well. It was a long haul from a country where the ships were thin and speedy, their sails ridged at the edges like the fins of some terrible fish. “Or dragons,” Gamora had supplied, which Eddie had made the mistake of laughing at. The lecture that followed on the dangers and realities of dragons wasn’t one he was prepared for in the slightest, but it was one he received regardless, the brunt of which was frontloaded with a swat or two from the lady aforementioned to get him to stop laughing. 

“There’s more serious problems on these waves than your immortal soul, Eddie Brock,” Gamora told him flatly - and something in the way she said it made his blood run cold. “There be dragons, and beyond them, worse things.” He’d watched her walk away once she’d said her piece and wondered; warily, what other, worse things there could be beyond a fire-breathing lizard whose size surpassed a barricade. 

If he had the choice between addressing any of his issues or fighting said fire-breathing lizard, however, Eddie Brock [ _ cladhaire  _ to the last] would’ve gladly taken on facing the dragon over Matthew Murdock.

It wasn’t as though they’d been hostile toward one another since the party and the rescue. No more so than usual, at any rate. If anything, Eddie had quietly withdrawn into himself and provided only the input necessary for the  _ Accuser,  _ and, later, the  _ Wing.  _ Both ships had fallen quickly and the  _ Wing,  _ a vessel of rum and sweets, had provided naught but celebratory means to the crew of the  _ Milano. _ They’d rejoiced in the liquor, imbibed, and danced to follow - though Peter made note that the treasures from the  _ Nova  _ and other ships needed to be fenced, and that, therein, was the issue regarding port as well.

Matthew was reluctant to dock for reasons he wouldn’t say - but Peter was insisting they retire somewhere warmer for the Winter. Ride out the harshest of the months in the safety and sanctuary of some tropical island in the sun. Matthew had told Peter what he thought of that method - “no better t’an a  _ cladhaire  _ yerself if we do” - to which Peter had scoffed and shaken his head, arms crossing.

“There will be less and less ships as we roll on toward December, Matty.” The Devil had bristled at the name, but said nothing. “Well be living off the dry stock for a long while. There’s only so much stew and mouse-nibbled bread a man can take. I need to get out, stretch my legs, and we need to sell as much of the inedible wares as we can to keep folks happy. Treasure is all well and good, but gold…” Peter sighed, one hand palming an imaginary handful of coins.

“Gold gets a man more than junked-up piles ever could. Though I do so love to lounge on that throne they meant to gift to the King of Spain. Or just the stacks of nonsense.” His smile only grew when he caught the reluctant one tugging on Matthew’s lips. “C’mon. Just a few months off the sea.” His hand lifted to cup Matthew’s face and the Devil melted in spite of himself; ice to the fire in Peter - or a coal crumbling to ash. Peter swiped his thumb over Matthew’s cheekbone, his smile softening.

“I’ll consider it,” the Devil told him after a lingering beat, and left to make himself scarce up amongst the birds and wind in the crow’s nest.

Eddie and the Guardians had weighed in their thoughts - Eddie cared little, anymore, where his life went, but the thought of port in some faraway island made something twist inside of him that he didn’t fully understand. It was too much like where he’d been before, with Matthew - and too much, he realized, like an end of some kind. A change was always an end, as it made a new beginning, of course. 

If he got away; if they left him - where would he be? Where would he go? Probably back to what he always did - run up against the merchants of the ships, charm his way into keeping their records, and...his shoulders slumped at the thought:

Most likely run into the Devil again in some newer capacity.

“One more ship,” Matthew had come back to tell Peter and the crew once he’d had a few days to mull it over. “One more, t’en we dock as ye please, Peter Quill.” The dramatic declaration was met with an equally dramatic conclusion, Peter dipping the Devil back toward the deck of the ship as he had the moment they met months ago - kissing him to seal the deal. There were even a few cheers from the crew [majorly Drax and Mantis], though Rocket muttered in his own language and disgustedly sauntered away; Groot in tow. Eddie had hovered for a moment before awkwardly bowing to Peter and Matthew, his words stiff as his spine when he rose again.

“I’ll see to the necessary preparations.” 

Spinning on his heel to march away, Eddie heard Peter’s confused voice float after him on the breeze:

“Did he just - bow…? To us?”

And there he’d been down below ever since, pooling over the remaining ships in his mind that he knew about. The bank of names remained full, comfortably rich, so to speak. He ran a mental finger across the lists, dashing as he went. He could point them in the direction of  _ The Jameson  _ next, perhaps - the egotistical captain of that vessel was due for a comeuppance. 

But that wasn’t his decision to make - other than...it was. He brought men to the gallows that were Matthew’s fists; his sword, his fury. Eddie was the executioner himself; signing their death warrants the way that he did, with charts and words and deeds.

One hand ran through the lengthening hair atop his head, the shag of which splayed against his fingers; in need of a trim. He could practically braid it now, and that would never do. He’d managed to clean up his face somewhat, save for the scruff of the past few days, but all his energy had been devoted to...he wasn’t sure what. There was a malaise within him that settled heavy as a weighted boot atop his chest. It pressed him, shoving him down into himself where the quietest places were. It was where the child in him cried; where the young man starved on the coldest nights when the poorhouse was full of women and children who needed space more than he.

Stirred from his reverie by something or another, Eddie started, sitting up from the table. In the rock of the lanterns, dark all around, the Devil stood, back in his all black and his scarf wrapped around the top of his face.

“What the Devil do you want?” Eddie asked - before catching the stupidity of that statement and scowling faintly. He couldn’t see it, but somehow, Eddie knew Matt had raised a brow on his behalf; mouth shrugging into a line of amused understanding. Eddie dropped his gaze back down to the papers spread before him, dipping his quill back into the inkwell on the table. “I’m working on the next, just be patient.”

“...what is it, Eddie?” Matthew’s voice, his  _ name,  _ spilled out of the dark like rum, spiced with  _ something. _ Eddie’s hand stilled, the ink blotting below the quill. “Pleased it isn’t just ye and I at each ot’er’s t’roats anymore?” Eddie swallowed and picked the pen up off the parchment, shakily moving to write something else down.

“Like I said, I’m working on the ship name. Please just - give me an hour and I’ll have it ready for you. That’s what you came for, isn’t it?” He refused to look up at Matt, turning to another leaf of parchment, likewise denying his hand’s trembling. He had to be stoic. The seabed, the rock, the floor of the ocean. Nothing else. The fire couldn’t touch him if he just stayed calm.

“ _ Sea _ .” The Gaelic gilded the air, goading. Matthew had paced closer now, on those silent feet, the well-worn soles of black boots not so much as offering a creak on the  _ Milano _ ’s floor. Eddie forced himself to scribble something - an inconsequential shorthand regarding the speed of a ship. Matthew’s voice floated into his ear on a breeze so warm and sweet it almost clouded Eddie’s mind: “ _ But I came for more than just that _ .” 

Matt came closer and every tendon in Eddie's body seized up with anger - but he held it back, carefully marking his work before laying down his quill for the time being. Tilting ever-so-slightly in Matt's direction, Eddie said out of the corner of his mouth:

"Sea, did ye now?" The ghosts of the world he left behind chased his words; laying their accent to claim on his tongue. He bit down on it hard for a moment, as if to force the little traces of Leitrim out, and muttered in addition, "what more could I possibly have to give you,  _ Matthew _ ?"

The Devil drew back a little from where he’d laid a hand against the back of Eddie’s chair, surprised - then bared his teeth when he next spoke, then, like a dog with its hackles raised. 

“Not here to take. Here to give,  _ leathcheann tú _ .” Good. That name was a good sign. Meant the Devil was putting distance between them again. It was preferred. Eddie felt an immense and ugly swell of satisfaction at that, even though the scent of Matt so close - sweat and leather; liquor, smoke, blood, and something like smoky cedar - was everything. It was an all-encompassing wave better than any in the sea below them both. Eddie wanted nothing more than to turn his head to those waters and let himself drown. 

But no - he’d keep treading away. Break to the surface. And leave the dark things where they lay; desperately yearning, inside that place of silence within himself.

Eddie smiled without humor, shoving the work aside, and with steepled hands, finally turned to gaze at Matthew more directly. 

"Here to give me an insult, then? Thanks, you've done that." And he knew from the look on Matthew’s face following that deflection he could easily die, but - that's nothing new. Eddie knew his time was bound to come, one way or another, most likely by the Devil's hand. It would be what he deserved, undoubtedly, in the end.

With a snarl, Matthew curled his fist in Eddie’s shirt and dragged him upright. Eddie yelped, in surprise at the sudden burst; the affront still catching him off-guard - but the sound got strangled somewhere in his throat between the impact and the snap of lips and teeth as the Devil, not finished with him yet, drove him back against the beam of the ship so hard Eddie swore it shook. Or he did. 

Matthew dove in toward him and Eddie swore he saw sharp teeth and the maw of Hell itself, but the shadows gave way to a lap of heat. Matthew pressed against his jaw - not to tear his throat, nor to kiss, but to  _ gnaw.  _ And it made everything inside of Eddie  _ spark _ back to life; his pulse jumping to a frenzy and his skin igniting. 

And he stared, wide-eyed, at Matthew [who stayed pressed to his skin, the hot breath huffed against it giving way to fresh shivers - waiting] with a stammer of, "what -- what are you doing?" 

The bravado was completely gone from Eddie Brock. And he had no idea what to do with his hands. Or the rest of himself. He knew he should push Matt away.

But he didn’t. 

Eddie  _ couldn’t. _

The hand in Eddie's shirt slowly unfurled and slid up his chest until Matt's fingers rested at the base of his neck, ready to either choke or.... simply hold him, stroking a thumb right in the dip of his collarbone. The sensation nearly brought tears to his eyes; tender as it was, and Eddie risked the opportunity to lift his fingers and cradle Matthew’s own. The digits didn’t deviate from their path, nor did Matthew move to push him away. Instead, into his ear, Matthew purred lowly, like the rake of hot coals:

_ "When was t’e last time anyone touched ye wit’ kindness?" _

Eddie, his heart in his throat under Matt’s hand, anxiously waiting to be destroyed, braced himself for impact. But destruction doesn't come in the way he thought it might.

It came softly; comes gradually. He felt his pulse hammering away under Matt's palm; felt the weight of the lives he's taken, the creases life has left in Matt's skin, the violence, the strength of the ropes he hauled himself around on with such ease…

Matt spoke to him like that, and it was the sweetest thing Eddie had  _ ever  _ heard, and his mouth loosening a little from it, his knees softening from it, and everything inside of him turned to lava and treacle. As if Matthew has breathed fire into him. A dragon. A Devil.

More than that still.

  
  


For a moment, Eddie couldn’t find words; between the way his eyes fluttered or the feeling of his heartbeat scampering in aimless directions like a trapped animal. But he thought about it. Then:

  
  


"...never," he said finally; barely a sigh. Every longing in the world lived inside that word. It was the hungry child and the desperate adolescent and the man without a place in the world filling in the cracks when nobody was looking. It was a broken heart and a battered spirit. It was - all the pain he laid at Matthew’s feet, then, from the world through himself. He had nothing to give but names and dates; ships and charts, and foolish, pointless courtly things that cantered back and forth in his mind, a paddock full of follies or fillies both. He had nothing but this. None of it mattered now. Not like the warmth that radiated from the hand on his breast. His eyes watered.

" _ Never _ ," Eddie breathed again, and turned slightly closer to Matt; as much as he could - wanting Matt to reduce him to ashes, all of a sudden, if it meant he got to feel this warm for just a little longer. He’d take that. The sweet release, the death of a thousand smaller demises. He didn’t care anymore, not beyond this. 

At that echo, Matt slid his hand higher to the side of Eddie's face, kneading into cheek as his own face dipped lower to Eddie's neck, dragging his nose tantalizingly along his pulse before he met it with tongue and teeth. Matthew mouthed him and Eddie moaned; faint but  _ hungry.  _ Always so hungry. He swore it was some monstrous thing inside of him, what with the greed and envy he can never seem to satiate. But the Devil knew all his sin. Eddie needn’t hide it from him.

And for the Devil’s part, he could taste all the grit, all the sweat and salty sea air on Eddie’s flesh. Remnants of tea and tobacco, the bite of metal hung around his throat. A chain, binding him to something Matthew knew nothing of. He should’ve asked, but he didn’t - they were still circling one another; two sharks descending to the depths, and sharks didn’t stop for conversation. They hungered; they fed. They bled when they needed to bleed something, and Matthew bit Eddie’s throat soft and slow, slaking their lustful emptiness with something  _ satisfying. _ Clamping down, jaw strong, always satisfied. It was primal and it sang in his veins, same as it did whenever he killed with righteous fury.

This, too, was a killing - merciful, in its own right. Killing doubt. Raising truth from its grave. 

Eddie shuddered outright at the hand on his face, expecting pain — and when it doesn’t come, he started to feel something else the longer Matt’s lips layered affection on his neck. What he felt was - 

Burning breakage. Creaking in his chest like tinders giving way in a firestorm. He shut his eyes and choked out a soft “ _ Christ _ ” at the way the Devil caught his his throat between his teeth, turning to kiss the flat of the hand on his face with a ragged whine of “ _ leannán _ ,  **please** ” his hands finally catching hold of Matt’s arms to pull him in.

_ Leannán. _ Matt almost paused at that, his hands climbing up under Eddie’s shirt to seek the small of his back, the broad splay of his shoulders. In his world of endless embers, he can feel the pulsations of Eddie’s passions, the slick of sweat and salt still building, now most pungent between his thighs. It called to Matthew, rolls of his tongue trawling the flavors in with netted purpose. The terrible smirk he held to Eddie’s throat like a blade smoothed over; sheathed. Soft lips instead took Eddie’s in, and both hands lifted to curl across scratchy cheeks that feel like granite to Matt for how strong the bone beneath them is.

Eddie felt the world turn to foam and soot; soft, silken things burying him sweetly as Matthew kissed him; so slow and so rich and warm he practically wept. He finally moved his own hands down to Matt's hips - then onward, unable to stop, the tide  _ rushing  _ in between them - back to his rear to pull him flush to his body. Eddie’s lips parted to catch Matt's with deep yearning, a little whimper caught between them. 

There was a begging need between his legs now hard to ignore; hard as the beam Matthew pressed him against, the Devil’s fingers dancing up his spine and back again. Eddie lolled his head back in a haze, trying to catch his breath as Matthew peppered nips and kisses across his ear - the other man’s knees going  _ weak  _ when Matthew found his hips, the old cuts and scars on the right in particular blazing to life again. Something inside of him sang as he snapped forward, rocking against Matthew’s thigh. Beneath him, Eddie could feel the desire echoed in the Devil’s own length. His mouth watered at the thought of it; his eyes burned with - something. 

A mix of emotions; a caldera more cacophonous and treacherous than any triangulating whirlpool. It, too, sucked him under. Eddie sucked in a breath as if about to dive again, and dive he did, for the sweet taste of Hell itself on Matthew’s tongue. Rum and cinnamon and black tea, running together in a blurred haze, tinted with copper. Always copper. Always a little bit red.

Eddie pulled back with a ragged breath and Matthew chased him, nails digging into his waist as he began to undo Eddie’s trousers, their kisses sloppier; their motions more hurried. Eddie pawed at Matt’s blindfold - “ _ let me see ye, please, let me...see ye… _ ” and there he was, freed at last, freckled and bright - almost  _ laughing  _ as the lanterns painted him in bronze. He was fiery; he was beautiful,  _ beautiful  _ beyond any comprehension, and Eddie paused only to hold Matthew’s face for a moment. The Devil’s hands slowed on the fastens of his breeches and Eddie gulped, awash in a fever of  _ want. _

No -  _ need. _

“...Ye’re incredible,” Eddie said hoarsely, fingers pressed to Matthew’s cheeks. The other man blinked; the scarred stare unyielding; even though it saw nothing but the wavering lines of the air when Eddie spoke. “Beautiful, so...so beautiful, Matt’ew…” Lids lowered a little, the Devil’s smile shyer, somehow, a softness Eddie hadn’t seen before - save for with Peter, but he tried not to look. Wasn’t his place. This wasn’t his place, but…

“T’ank ye, Eddie,” Matthew murmured, and he was  _ lost,  _ lost to the way Matthew tipped his chin up with a couple of fingers to coax their mouths together again. Eddie let himself drift into the drink of that mouth, lapping into the warm center, his hand dipping down to cup Matthew’s desire, palming him slow. The Devil groaned into his mouth and Eddie smiled; near-giggling from the force of it, the roar of rattling bones and something shaking off its chains. Bestial at best; fervently human at worst - his hands rucked under Matthew’s shirt to claw at his ribs.

There was a little clink by the door and Eddie jolted back; hair on end and eyes wide. Matthew, still panting for breath, plunged against his jaw again. The lanterns still swung, and it took Eddie a moment to find the source of the sound in the semidarkness. 

“Don’t mind me,” Peter purred just beyond illumination’s full embrace, raising a bottle to his lips from where he’d been lounging against the wall. Eddie’s heart dropped to the bottom of the ocean. “Just passing through.” One hand whipped up to press against Matthew’s chest to push him back, and the Devil’s teeth clicked together in irritation at the denial, hands still scrabbling for purchase on Eddie. Heart hammering, the record-keeper glanced between the two of them as if trying to discern whether or not this had been some terrible joke. A jest at his expense. His chest clenched; sick and frightened.

“It’s - it’s fine,” Peter said, brow furrowing, one foot moving back toward the stairs whence he came. “I really - Eddie, why’re you - what’s wrong? I can - I can look elsewhere. Or not at all,” Peter innocently covered his eyes, then peeped through his fingers at Eddie. The attempt at jibe fell flat, however, as Peter’s hand dropped away, unease settling in. Eddie looked - petrified. Despairing, even. 

“...Never - never meant to intrude, I…”  _ Is this funny to you?  _ It all got tangled inside of him and Eddie, head swimming, lap strained with urgency, tried to tuck his shirt back into place, eyes darting between the captain and the now-silent shadow that was the Devil himself. “I just - it...I’ve not - please…” Peter’s brow creased, and Matthew pressed his lips together. They exchanged a ‘look’ that was more a nod, and Peter set the bottle down, stepping closer to Eddie. The other man shied back slightly; his head knocking against the pillar of the boat. Peter raised his hands in a shushing; soothing motion, eyes almost golden in the hanging lamps burnt so low that the shade in the room bled red all around the three of them.

“...It’s alright,” Peter tried again. Little by little, his fingers fell to Eddie’s chest, somehow instinctively across the ring he kept buried beneath all his layers. Matthew slipped back to his side, risking the closeness once more now that Peter was there, fingers curving across Eddie’s hip. He twitched at that; a soft whine in the back of his throat, and the captain tenderly kissed the top of his head - a motion so sweet and out of the ordinary it almost reduced Eddie to tears anew. What was  _ happening _ ?

“I’ve seen the way you look at us, Eddie,” Peter said softly, “don’t you see the way we look at you?” Eddie’s throat hitched with a breath; clicking wetly in his mouth. 

Peter’s glances and smiles. The way Matthew swooped down to sneer at him upside-down - could’ve been a grin. Teasing. The dance. The way Peter kept reaching for him even when he drew away. The lamps blurred into miniature sunsets as Eddie batted away more moisture under his lashes, and, one hand lifting to curl into Peter’s candlelit tresses, Eddie drew the other man down to kiss him, too - hesitant and terrified, still, that this was some prank at his expense. But Peter  _ hummed,  _ happily so, and kissed him back with a parched sigh blessedly spilling into his mouth. Matthew kissed his neck, laying a murmur of Gaelic against his veins. It felt like their rivers met; the wetlands rising, bog air on their humid breath. They were an entanglement of the impossible. Peter the air; Matthew the will-o-wisp drawing him over the moors.

“...yes,” Eddie said faintly, his voice thick with emotion as he drew back from Peter, head turning instead to rest against Matthew’s, “only - only I didn’ae know...what I was seein’...” The hand in Peter’s hair loosened to lower down to his neck instead, and the captain laughed gently; not unkindly, against Eddie’s temple. Matthew smiled - something smaller, now. Something less secretive, though. Tender. Exclusively theirs -  _ theirs  _ \- in the hazy, waking dream of the unknown down below the decks and sails and stars above. Eddie’s other hand dropped to Matt’s chest as he added,

“ _ Feelin’,  _ eit’er…” His fingers curled and Matthew folded his own around Eddie’s, pulling them up to his lips. Caught between the elements, lost to the shadow, Eddie felt, however, he’d finally found the light. The heat at last. The promise of tomorrow. 

A ship that had a port of its own. Two harbors from the storms, even the ones still clamoring frantically in his chest, but never,  _ never  _ in his life had he been touched with such tenderness.

“ _ Anam cara, _ ” Matthew whispered, and tilted up on his toes to kiss Peter Quill tenderly.  _ Soul-friend. _ Spirit of the heart; Eddie recalled his mother saying -  _ ye’ll know yer ain true love by t’e way yer eyes meet. It is instant. _ It was what had happened on the deck that day, months past, where Peter had found the light inside the Devil and dragged it to the surface. The levity of the heart.  _ Forgiveness. _

That’s what this was.

That’s what  _ love  _ was.

Oh, how it ached to realize. He’d been so  _ stupid. _ Not only had he fallen from grace, Eddie had...

He’d... _ fallen in love. _

Eddie broke into tears outright at the realization, but hands were there to catch them, and the man who’d paced outside in the cold; in the hungry, like a dog begging for scraps, finally fell to feast on soft lips and warm skin.

The ship held them all like sanctuary, and in the night, they kindled new flame - the air, the earth, and the spark of change.


	9. Past Lives Never Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's vacation time!  
> ...OR...  
> IS IT?  
> Tortuga, drinking games, and randy dandy-o's.

###  Sanctuary gave way to white sands and hot sun, the Caribbean their designated place to dock for the long, hard Winter months.

Peter had poured over the offerings they had and, given circumstances, decided to go with an island known for its ability to look the other way where goods were concerned, while simultaneously having some of the most beautiful shoreline and offerings [according to Peter Quill, at any rate] and plenty of rum. 

“Tortuga,” Matt had proclaimed dryly. Peter, beaming at him from across the table, refilled his water with a pitcher shaped like a leaping fish - courtesy of one of the ships they’d looted and left to drift on the sea. 

“Yeah, Tortuga.”

“Not exactly a relaxin’ vacation spot, Quill.” Peter pouted, apparently due to the use of his last name, and nudged Eddie with an elbow as if to say  _ can you believe this guy? _ Eddie cast the captain an uneasy look - then broke into soft, wheezy titters when confronted directly with the intensity of Peter’s stroppy expression.

“He’s right, you know.”

“You’re  _ both  _ against me,” Peter sighed, flopping back down onto his chair. “I didn’t have this much trouble with the rest of my crew.” Drax and Rocket had, in fact, all but shouted with excitement at the prospect of disembarking to that treacherous isle - whereas Mantis and Gamora had seemed somewhat less-enthused. But Groot had broken the tie, so to speak - his beatific smile and incline of his head enough for Peter to feel supported in that regard.

“But, hey,” Peter’s hands clasped down on Eddie’s shoulders with a soft jostle as he hauled himself to his feet, “it was here or Contraxia. Those're the most  _ relaxing  _ places I know, personally. By the by,” Peter swung down to press his cheek to Matt’s, peering across the table from Eddie now; the other trying desperately not to crack a smile in the wake of Peter’s supposed; sudden seriousness, “don't put any bets down on turtle races. They're all rigged.” He patted the other side of Matt’s face before twirling away, strolling off to go above-deck. “Don't want you getting duped!”

Matthew and Eddie, left to their own devices, sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, then - 

“How many times d’ye reckon he’s been duped?”

“Oh, dozens.”

They made it to Tortuga in a surprisingly short amount of time - docking within the hour; all the winds warm and in their favor. With the  _ Milano  _ safely tucked away in a cove that would protect it from most gales, the crew trickled out into the streets of the strange little island with its tiered port rising toward sky almost blue as the water below. The clear, sunny day enveloped them all -

As the sand nearly enveloped Eddie Brock, his knees so wobbly from the time on the sea he almost sank headfirst into the sand. Raucous laughter followed him as Matthew hauled him to his feet, strong hands under his biceps.

“Steady on,  _ leatcheann, _ ” he teased; Eddie sputtering sand out of his face and swiping at the grains. Eddie made a face at him, and the Devil’s smile only grew.

“Easy for you to say,” Eddie groused faintly, “why is it you’re not bothered more by this?” Matthew shrugged nonchalantly, coppery hair billowing in the tropical breeze. 

“Must be I’m just more adaptive t’an ye.” 

Eddie knew his offended expression of wordless dismay was lost on the man who saw beyond the use of his eyes, but still the face was pulled. Matthew chuckled to himself as he sought Peter’s arm, lazily twining his own through the captain’s as they strolled off the docks into town.

The colors of the day were a dozen to one; rugs of crimson, gold, and plum beaten against the porches; streaming banners of scarlet and verdant fluttering in frayed ribbons on the air. Rich kohl-black silks hung drying on the lines trimmed in silver. It was a veritable tapestry of hues, offset by the occasional sigil or symbol that seemed to point Peter’s weaving feet in the right direction. Bawdy red doors opened to beckon travelers as they entered a sidestreet, but one look at Peter and more than a few of those doors slammed shut with eye rolls before them.

“Popular around here, isn’t he?” Eddie remarked to Gamora, who allowed a wry smile to pull her lips slightly to the left.

“Popular most places,” she countered, and the two exchanged a knowing look as they all fell in after one another, Peter still offering suggestions like a tour guide as they strolled along.

“And to your left is the Scullery Teahouse, which is notorious for its good brews on the colder days, but it’s  _ also  _ home to some people who disagree with my opinions on the stuff, so maybe steer clear of there as well - oh, and there’s the Ravager Roost,  _ definitely  _ a no, I still owe Yondu for the last time I was here…”

“Why are we here again?” Eddie asked after the fourth or fifth “don’t go there” declaration. Peter swiveled in place, then beamed down at him, doffing the feathered hat he’d adorned just to make a grand entrance to the island at long last.

“Knowhere.”

“No - I know where we are, I--”

“No, I  _ mean… _ ” Peter fastened a hand to Eddie’s shoulder again and turned him in place. Down a shorter side-street, so dark and narrow between buildings it might as well have been a shadow cast between them, was a large, emerald-colored inn whose roof tinted bronze in the sunshine. Squinting slightly to see, Eddie allowed himself to be drawn down the alleyway toward the tavern partially-hidden by an enclosed square and copse of palm trees, sand blowing by across cobblestones haphazardly-lain. “Knowhere,” Peter and the sign that came into view both said, one aloud and one in embellished gold leaf that flaked away on the breeze.

“Of course,” Eddie said dryly. Peter grinned and gave his arm a squeeze before letting go to saunter on. Eddie swung around to look back at the crew, narrowly avoiding Rocket shouldering past him to keep scurrying down the alleyway ahead. Dark brows furrowed. “Where’s--”

“‘Ere I am, Eddie,” Matthew purred close to his ear - and Eddie jolted so badly he nearly swung back into Groot, who caught him with care. Matthew, grinning from ear to ear with a horrible light, held himself upside-down from an extended line between the alley’s walls, perched as neat as any time he’d done similar on the sails of the ship. Making a face at him, Eddie jutted a finger close to his freckled, sun-rouged features. 

“Stop  _ doin’ _ t’at. That.” His tongue darted over his lips and Eddie kicked himself as Matthew chuckled, sliding upright to scale the building beside him instead of walking below; easy as he pleased.

“As ye wish.”

They’d still not talked much beyond the night they’d shared together - affection had come and gone; but lingered, like a guest that made their way across the grounds, rather than staying in the house. Matthew occasionally brushed his knuckles in a way that made Eddie weak in the knees as they worked on the ship - and work alongside one another they did, more effectively and intensely than before. They were beginning to fall into a familiar pattern, knowing where one another were about to toss rope. Singing back and forth as Matthew moved through the topsails to adjust the rigging. 

And simultaneous to this, Peter and Eddie’s dance around one another had come to something of a smoother glide. Peter could somehow sense the change in his mood, appearing when he began to doubt and question, to uplift and remind him that his presence aboard the  _ Milano  _ was a welcome one. Kindness came in the form of Peter dragging Eddie away from crossing out the same sentences over and over again on his charts - instead humming to him and waltzing him around the deck [well - Peter waltzed, Eddie stumbled with concise effort not to] till he managed to find a smile on Eddie’s face again.

It was profound as it was baffling - and more of the same; feeling like a surreal daydream more than reality. 

It continued as they made their way to Knowhere; Mantis immediately rushing off to greet friends she apparently hadn’t seen in quite some time, chattering away in her own language amidst a colorful flock of women who kissed her hands and let her settle amongst their sea of satin garments. Peter clasped hands with a stocky man missing his left eye - “ _ hello, Star-Lin _ ” - before vanishing into the crowd to make his presence known to others. The crew of the  _ Milano  _ subsequently scattered, and Matthew and Eddie were left alone with one another in the sweltering heat and stench of the downstairs bar. 

It was only then that Eddie realized Matthew looked a little out of his element. He’d rejoined them on the ground, and as such, he was - much more a man than a Devil these days. His preferred colors remained, dark black and bloody crimson, but the face bared to the air still bore the speckling of a fawn still growing into his antlers; and the wide honeyed eyes of someone surprisingly kind.

Eddie nudged his arm with a quick dip of an elbow, and Matthew turned slightly his way, brows lifting. In the din and the glow of the lanterns hanging above them [each with a different hue of glass in the panes; as if the panels were taken and repurposed from elsewhere], he looked beautiful. Eddie’s heart softened in spite of himself and all the strangeness of his journey in that instant - seeing him for the man he was, and not the Devil he could be.

“You alright?” Matthew’s brows rose further, and the smile crept back onto his face, a little curl of amusement.

“Why? Worried about me, Edward?” The full name made his stomach flip; so soft and sweetly-spoken it might as well have been a psalm. Tipping forward on his boots, Eddie cast a furtive look around before his fingers sought a few of Matthew’s own, entangling their digits, one of his coarse thumbs caressing the side of his palm. Matthew’s eyes went half-lidded; thoughtful, and his head bowed - prayerful in the church-like glow of stained glass and candles. Eddie drew his hand up after a moment to kiss the knuckles, eyes drifting shut. 

“Maybe a little,” he confessed; feeling the digits flicker against his lips. Matt shifted his hand free to instead cradle his companion’s face, one finger lingering on the scar under Eddie’s eye. The pad swept over the sharp gash that’d healed up over a decade ago, a thoughtful hum in the other man’s throat.

“Sweet o’ye,” Matthew murmured, hand falling away. “But I just t’ink it’s a waste’uv time t’stay put fer too long. Dockin’ ain’t fer me. Ain’t fer ye eit’er, t’ough yer legs seem to say otherwise.” His grin painted his words in a cheeky light, and Eddie sighed, gaze coming back into focus as the gauze of lids lifted. Matt, haloed by the worn wooden interior and all its many flames, beamed up at him - a genuine smile, this time, nothing put on or borderline villainous. Eddie’s shoulders slumped, the wake of the warmth in Matthew’s face enough to ease his tensions all around.

For a brief moment, anyway.

Peter was on them in an instant following, arms around their shoulders, pulling them in toward him with a half-strangle as he found their necks. Eddie lifted his chin to narrowly avoid colliding with Matthew’s head ast they were hauled in; catch of the day, and handed a key to a room Peter proudly told them they’d all be sharing together.

“The crew’s got other rooms, I daresay we just about bought the inn out in its entirety.” Eddie’s face flooded with color, and Matthew’s smirk reappeared in lieu of his more benign expression. “For now, let’s  _ flarkin’  _ celebrate, I’ve got rum with our names on it down in the back there.” 

“Back there” turned out to be the wide, crescent curve of a corner that the bar clearly had no idea what to do with. There was a table, there were lamps, and there was an exit in the form of a cellar hole that led out to the docks directly once someone was below the upper levels. It smelled vaguely of fish from the harbors; the rot of weeds from the ocean - and something sweet. Honeysuckle; lavender, maybe. A wildflower that grew in pitch-black places despite everything. “Mantis-blooms,” Peter commented as they sat down, his smile wide. “Since she’s from here - well, as much as anyone can be - but that’s what I called’em when I met her. Because she was the flower who came up out of the worst and darkest areas. Not that Tortuga’s  _ entirely  _ like that - just...you know what I mean.”

Neither Eddie nor Matthew seemed to know what he meant, but both of them nodded anyway. Their time at the table was spent unwinding as Peter told them about the area, dealt them cards for games to play while they drank, and ordered them all food. 

It was an amalgamation of cultures, Tortuga was - the good people of the islands nearby; Haiti and elsewhere, created a space for travelers to come and rest without question. The Knowhere was a part of that, too - all walks of life wandered through the doors from what Eddie could see. The svelt, dark-clad sojourners from the Southern Americas with their hair drawn back; gilded with feathers, the sunburnt estranged from the snowier edges of the world, excommunicated officers of various armies - on and on the list went, Eddie ticking all the details away for later as Peter walked them through more of the same.

“--and on Sundays they have this  _ massive  _ bazaar, which is what we’ll be going to in order to offboard some of our wares, and then on Wednesdays they all go out and race their boats around the island. I’m not much of a canoer, mind you, but I love to see it, andmaybeputmoneydownonit  _ but - _ !” He grinned around a mouthful of rum and swallowed with a satisfied sigh, refilling from the barrel that’d been hefted directly over their table. A server dropped them off roasted fish in plantain leaves along with beans and rice; all of which was steamed with spices that made Eddie’s eyes water. Matthew, on the other hand, tore into the food with a vengeance unparalleled, drinking deeply - indulging in a way Eddie hadn’t seen him do before, all but furiously throwing himself into the fray of self-sustainment. 

“I think we’ll have a good time here, fellas,” Peter said - and laid down a hand of three aces and a king. He was met with an exasperated groan from Eddie, whereas Matthew simply shrugged a hand. The cards meant nothing to him, really, something Peter belatedly realized as he took back his deck, eyes dancing in the semidarkness.

Their afternoon bled into an evening, the unspoken rites of which remained as such. Eddie wanted so badly to ask what it all meant, where they stood in this whirlwind of uncertainties - but he was met, consistently, with the walls of his own hesitation. He couldn’t quite find the door out to speak freely. Instead, he let Peter and Matt do most of the talking, his head hazy from the amount of rum he’d put away compared to the food he’d only picked at [good as it was]. Peter, ruddy in the face from liquor and louder than ever, couldn’t seem to stop touching either of them as they wound down towards nightfall. Matthew, more smiley than usual, met each caress with fondness, nuzzling into a hand on his cheek or hooking his ankle with Peter’s under the table. There was music in Knowhere now; the inn filled with the sound of fiddle and fife alike.

Life  _ teemed  _ at the seams here; fit to burst with the promise of celebration. It was... _ fun,  _ in its own way, to simply sit and unwind without the rock of the sea underneath them all. The phantom flow remained, ship roiling from side to side like a cork loose in its own bottle of wine. It had become a piece of each of their souls, though none more so than Peter.

By the fifth or sixth tankard of rum, he was all but warbling with laughter, a gull himself in the confines of the inn. He’d proposed a game to further coax the laziness of their situation - they had work to do in the morning to unload the ship completely, but for now, they had a moment to spare for one another. For life. For  _ living. _

“Never - okay, okay, my turn, this time, this time,” Peter smoothed his hand repeatedly over Matt’s arm, all but worrying the limb, much to Matt’s quiet mirth, “never - never  _ have  _ I ever...gotten lost at sea…” Matt chuckled as Eddie drank, exasperated, finishing the next pint with a grimacing sigh.

“C’mon, I feel like ‘m the only one doin’ t’is,” he mumbled, too far gone to mask the sound of his accent. Peter beamed at him, other hand leaving pewter to instead settle on Eddie’s arm, connecting all three of them across the table.

“You go next then!”

“Fine,” Eddie grumbled, squinting into the haze. His eyes lingered on Matt’s lips, then rose to his face, considering. “...never ‘ave I ever ‘ad any before ye.”

Peter’s brows shot skyward and Matt sat up a little bit straighter, disbelieving. “Not fully, I might say. Not wit’ men.” Eddie murmured, ears tipping pink and hot in the low light. Wordless; both Peter and Matt drained the remainder of their drink before refilling, Matthew with a hiccuping laugh and Peter with a soft exhalation.

“That’s - wow. You sure?”

“...Pretty sure, Peter, yeah,” Eddie snorted, his mouth hinging in a lopsided grin. “Just - a couple’a gals back home, never - never all...y’know…” He motioned with a hand vaguely and Peter caught his fingers, mock-solemn.

“ _ Nothing  _ wrong with at,” he told Eddie seriously, and Eddie’s face; already overheated, turned a deeper shade of ruby. Matt was quiet for a moment, a finger caressing the side of his cup, before he seemed to switch gears.

“Why - why don’t we jus’ try’a - different game,” he suggested. “Trut’s an’ lies.” He picked up one of the cards from earlier, wet his thumb, and, after rubbing the back of the card, stuck it squarely on Eddie’s brow. He did the same for himself and Peter, much to Peter’s delight, settling back. “If ye guess yer card, ye’re allowed t’lie. Till t’en, ye must only tell t’e trut’.”

“Sounds fair enough,” Eddie said, glad to be steering away from the more personal queries. He should’ve picked something else, but, already an open wound in that sense, pressed on: “Peter, where are ye from?”

“Izzit a Joker?” Peter asked, pointing to his brow. Both men shook their heads, and he huffed in mock-annoyance. “I’m not entirely sure. My mother and I had an island of our own for years, till she took me to London. I didn’t stay long - I hated it there,” he scrunched his face, “ran away quick enough. To here, actually - with the Ravagers. But - yeah. We called our island Quill’s Nook. Lived there a good long while.” Some shadow crossed Peter’s beardy face before he raised his tankard, shrugging his brows. “Haven’t...been able to find it in many years, though.”

A lull passed, then Peter’s eyes shifted from Matt to Edide, thoughtful. Outside, the island’s warmer weather had begun to change, thunder booming and shaking the palm fronds to a shivering wind section in an unholy orchestra. The hatches and shutters of Knowhere were closing to the night air, a rippling movement manufactured by a dozen of the brightly-clad ladies Mantis sat with prior. 

“Why d’ya hide your accent, Eddie?” Peter asked mildly. Matt’s lips pressed together and Eddie; his previous comforts forgotten, tensed again. There was a distant growl from the skies above the sea, and the record-keeper looked down at ink-splotched hands, debating.

“...Is t’e card a Queen o’ Hearts?” Peter shook his head. Eddie sighed, then squared up to answer. 

“...Part’uv t’e desire to move up in t’e world,” he said quietly. “Don’t get far soundin’ t’e way I do, or Matt’ew does, unfortunately, wit’ t’e powers in play where I come from. Where we bot’ come from,” he added, looking sidelong at Matthew. The Devil didn’t move, cast in the fiery shadows of the deepening dusk. Eddie’s gaze lingered on his profile. Handsome; handsome in the unexpected way his jaw set like stone or his eyes blazed despite how all they saw was - nothing of this world. Perhaps the next. Perhaps he was divine. He burned like holy fire. Eddie realized he was tipping in closer to Matthew, and, slouching back, blinked rapidly. Recovering his thoughts was like trying to hold water right now.

“Shame,” he finished sleepily, nodding once. “Shame is t’e reason, I t’ink, more’n any ot’er.” Peter frowned at that, for shame was nothing he’d experienced - not really. He rose above it, defied it, denied it, and to see it so plainly laid before him - especially when doused in drink - baffled him. His head cocked to one side, the captain looked down at the table. Three sets of hands, each with their own agonies. Eddie’s stained with kohl; Matthew’s stained with rusty blood that never fully left the bed of his nails. Peter’s own; plain but adorned with the rings and baubles of other people’s treasure. They owned their sins so fully; each set of hands. He reached for Matt and Eddie’s nonetheless. Sharing the weight of a name and a life and a longing.

“We’ve skipped Matthew,” he realized with a gasp, swiveling apologetically his way without breaking their contact. The Devil smirked slightly, ducking his head in a way that seemed to indicate he didn’t mind - and, his other hand seizing Eddie’s own, he squeezed tenderly. Both boys.  _ His  _ boys. 

The Devil took care of his own.

“Go on t’en, Edward,” Matthew purred, swiveling his way with a subtler smile than before. “Ask what it is ye’ve wanted t’ask me all along.” 

Eddie opened his mouth, torn between simply kissing him in a building wave of desire from the heat that spread through his veins - or asking. Asking how it was he did what he could do, how he’d lost his eyesight,  _ where  _ he’d come from - had they  _ met  _ before, how did he  _ know him _ \- 

But he didn’t get the opportunity to do so.

The doors to Knowhere banged open against the rain, and in the doorway stood three intimidating figures with more beyond them; clad in navy like shards of the night, struck to life via the matchsticks of heaven as lightning flashed beyond their silhouettes.

The trio in the back booth felt the rush of silence settle in a tide, and Matthew’s eyes widened slightly as something familiar hit him with the full force of a typhoon.  _ His past. The truth. The smell of something bitter; licorice-laced. Poisonous. Dangerous. The mud of Galway. The trampling, pounding of horse hooves and the shouting of defiance in the streets. Quelled; culled. Crushed. But never  _ **_beaten._ **

A ghost entered into Knowhere, and Hell would follow.

“ _ Rand, _ ” Matthew breathed; vengeance in all but smoke and brimstone.

His hands left Eddie and Peter’s at once.


	10. A Rush of Bloody Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt deals with his demons one of the few ways he knows how.

###  Night air rushed across the precipice of the beaches, bowing palms low like serfs before a lord. 

Through the window, Peter peered into the streets of Tortuga, the fine, sprawling room he’d accommodated for them keeping the trio temporarily suspended in firelight against the backdrop of midnight blue. Eddie sat on the bed, ledger and quill in hand, dazedly trying to remember what he’d been intending to do. Matt, bare-chested with his back directly up against the fire, was pressing the liquor on through his system. 

There was work to be done.

Rand had strode into the bar of the Knowhere Inn merely two hours ago - greeted with lukewarm appreciation by tavern staff who knew their policy was to turn no one away. Especially if they paid. But they didn’t seem overly-thrilled with his presence, nor with the way he scanned the room with his cold eyes, ghostly-bright in the dark. The officers flanking him had seeped into the crowd - not to look for anything in particular, but rather, one left to make acquaintance with a gambling table; the others to the shadows where willowy arms beckoned and bowed. 

There was something for everyone in Tortuga, even the soldiers of his majesty’s army. 

Matt had gone to smash the bottle nearest against the side of the table; fury in his unwound limbs recoiling with the force of a musket fired; a serpent having struck. Eddie and Peter had each put a hand on his arms to pull him back into his seat, the drink and the disorientation of being on land after so long at least working in their favor. 

“What is it?” Peter’d asked, his greenish eyes shifting between Matt and the soldiers making their way through the crowd. “Matty? What’s going on?”

Wordless, the Devil dragged his teeth together; a grind so terrible it was more metal scraping metal than bone upon bone. Stronger than the things he fought with, even mightier than his fists, the mad anger burning in Matt’s eyes; goldened in the candles and hearth, promised Hell to pay. Eddie, even in the haze of drink and pleasure, noted that - and noted how Rand seemed to linger on their table for a moment before pressing on. 

Only then did Matthew breathe, the heave of his ribs a creaking beam. Peter’s hand tightened on his arm as the breath escalated - cornered animal; flashing teeth and snapping jaw. 

“T’at man -” Matthew’s strangled voice declared, “deserves naught but t’e bottom o’t’e sea, and if I’ve got a say, t’at’s where he will go.”

“Not in Tortuga,” Peter implored hoarsely, voice low. “Please. This is the church for the damned, their sanctuary,” he added faintly. “Would you rip the hinges off this place to slake your bloodlust?”

“No,” Matt replied; fire in his words as his face turned Peter’s way, “but I would burn t’is cat’edral down if it meant doing what’s  _ right. _ Sin fer sin, we all must pay.” Eddie felt those words in his bones; chains that latched onto his spirit and hauled him, too, back into the deep blue sea.

Peter withdrew with a soft exhalation, though his fingers were the last to leave - still clutching Matt’s arm briefly. 

“Leave it for a night. He’s clearly here for a while. And he’s here under neutral parlay,” Peter murmured, fingers tapping restlessly against the table. Watching as his rings caught the light, Eddie rubbed his jaw, debating with himself for a moment or two before starting to get to his feet, wobbling slightly. Peter rose with him, smoother than Eddie’s ascent, and caught his arm around his shoulders neatly, hauling him straighter. Matt stayed where he was for a moment, wreathed in shadow.

“Leave it,” Peter begged again, glancing down at Matt, then motioning with his head. “Please. Let’s head upstairs, alright? We can just...exist for a little bit. You don’t have to chase the past. You can just keep running, Matty.” Something in Matt’s face twitched as he reluctantly got to his feet, teeth still a little bit bared. “You can leave it  _ all  _ behind.”

“T’e past stays wit’ me,” Matt noted, fingers curving along the lacy edges of his old injuries. Peter’s face fell - Eddie watched the hopefulness crumble into the oblivion of sandy beard and soft lips. Matt’s smile in return was a hollow one; swallowing the light between the even teeth of a predatory beast. “An’ I enact’er justice.” The calloused hands curled into fists, all but unsheathing claws - and Matt swept off toward the stairs with such swiftness and steadiness that Peter and Eddie had to all but scramble to keep up. 

Matt had set about kindling the fireplace in the room the moment they’d entered - shedding clothes with a rapidity that was unparalleled. Peter’d initially been intrigued by this, but it became apparent that Matt was maneuvering for something medicinal: to sweat out all he’d imbibed much more quickly, with water in hand to toss back with the force of a typhoon. 

Eddie, to his credit, decided his best course of action was to settle back quietly on the bed - watching the other two through the swimming haze of shallow liquor swirling around inside of him. It all but pulled him under, and in the depths of the darkness that smelled like roasting fronds, reeds, and timber, Eddie kept close to the surface where Matt and Peter whispered back and forth.

“Why won’t you tell me who he is?”

“Isn’t yer problem or yer business.”

“So what  _ is  _ my business, if not yours? We’re -”

“Don’t.”

“Anam  _ cara,  _ Matthew -”

“I said  _ don’t,  _ Peter. Just leave it.”

Frustrated, Peter plunked down, cross-legged, in front of Matt - staring into his face, stoic as it was, unbothered by the closeness. Tightening his jaw, Peter spread his hands across his thighs; smoothing tension out of his legs or his fingers; whichever - and stooped inward a bit more.

“I brought you here to show you that the Devil isn’t everything you are,” Peter said fiercely, a scrunch to his nose and a flash of eyeteeth showing - animal to animal in a language he hoped Matthew understood. Dark brows lifted, and Matt scoffed softly, hands resting in his lap. In the firelight, Eddie noted how the glow painted the freckles on his shoulders - the scars and the nicks, all manner of divots and ridges drawn out bright. He was marked in a million ways; tallied by the universe - sweat rolling down his spine, sinking into salt. Unbowed and unbroken despite how he’d been treated. Whatever had happened between him and Rand - it fueled him now. It rekindled his desire for vengeance. 

There was no mercy in his voice when next he spoke:

“T’e Devil will always get’is due. He’s my answer to t’eir misgivings. T’eir misdeeds. I will show’em Hell and t’ey will learn to fear the falsities of their crimes.”

“That’s all well and good,” Peter grumbled, “but what are you to do when the innocent people here are under threat from the empire they fight to escape? Who will protect them once you’ve killed his majesty’s naval men?” Matt blinked innocently, then rolled his neck a little, shoulders shifting back. A shrug of thumbs followed, hands still set in his lap.

“Who says I have t’kill’em? Maybe I just want t’em gone fer now. Off to t’eir ships. T’is is our respite now. Besides - every person here is a sinner, Peter.” His voice flattened out; evening off. “Ye, myself, Eddie - an’ everyone’re ‘as secrets o’ t’eir own.” Peter scowled. “Ye cannae deny me t’at, can ye. Ye knew when ye brought us’ere what it would be.”

“Not like this,” Peter muttered. “Not so fast.” Matt’s lips parted in a mocking “ _ oh _ ”, but before he could get to the next leg of the argument, someone else cut in.

“Not exactly on brand fer ye to let a fish off t’e line,” Eddie remarked from the bed; drowsily. Matt cocked his head with a nod of acknowledgment, then stretched his arms above his head, the cup of water once more emptied - the pitcher, too, now the same. 

“Just t’ink it might be easier if we laid low fer a bit. Clued t’e ot’ers in.” Eddie scrubbed at his face, trying to sit up - then slumped back against the wall with a grimace. “Ye’re bein’ rash. Reactionary. Ye don’t even know what ye’ll do yet, surely.” 

Matt didn’t correct him - he’d had a plan or two form the moment he saw Rand set foot in Knowhere. And long before that - he’d schemed for  _ decades  _ on this; worked his way to moments like these. He’d always pictured them differently. Matt licked his lips, brow furrowing. 

And he only chose to answer one point - strategists seldom showed everyone their hand, after all. Especially if the parties in attendance seemed inclined to refute his efforts. The Devil had a war to wage - the battlefield didn’t matter. 

“Good point, Edward. Consider it a prolonged engagement. Cat an’ mouse.”

“Are they fish or mice? I’m confused,” Peter murmured faintly. Deciding that wasn’t the most relevant topic, however, he lifted his hands. “Just - give us something, Matt. Tell us you aren’t about to jeopardize an entire island for one man’s crimes.” 

Matt, rising smoothly to his feet, reached for his shapeless black shirt, tugging it on over his head and across his frame. One hand felt over the mantelpiece for the sash he’d had before - tying it neat and close around the upper part of his face. Red bristles and cinnamon stubble cast his features into sharp relief as the fire spat, hissing, beyond him. One hand dipped the pitcher back into the basin of water by the door, then, without a word, Matt dumped the contents over the flames. The coals sputtered with protest alongside Peter, and died like the yawn Eddie’d been in the middle of.

“Fine,” Matthew said pleasantly; his purr that of the smoke now spilling out of the hearth. The room, cobalt and all-encompassing in its shady depths, amplified his words - voice cast from all manner of corner and threshold; indiscernible in origin. A test. “T’en I won’t tell ye.”

“ _ Matt, _ ” Peter snapped, getting to his feet. The Devil’s hand covered his mouth as Matthew traipsed back toward the broad window with the small balcony, the old inn’s conversion from its previous existence leaving little luxuries behind. The glass creaked as it opened, and, now lit by the moon, Matthew moved with shadowy ease across the sill. Peter followed, Eddie sitting up on the bed with a queasy rock before trailing after. 

“Listen,” Matthew said quietly. Eddie strained, only hearing crickets and the night winds making the trees dance. The waves sighed somewhere off in the distance. A night bird called, and the singing was winding down below them - the Knowhere bar now on the close. 

“T’ey’re not here fer a holiday,” Matt murmured. “One o’ t’e men is lookin’ fer someone - a runaway boy. A Danny.” His jaw went taut with a flicker of impulse withheld just below the skin, and Matt set freshly-wrapped hands on the edge of the balcony. “T’ey want’im back. But what Rand wants, ‘e can never have.” 

Saying thus, before anyone could stop him, Matt  _ leaped  _ over the edge of the balcony in a quick tuck of his legs. Peter shot to the edge in an instant, Eddie frozen with fear on the other side of the entrance. 

Matt descended into the dark with a confident dive - his arms outstretched to snatch two soldiers around the neck and drag them to the ground. They struck hard on the cobblestones, one man immediately down as the one jutting-out rock Matt had felt coming toward them caught his temple. He’d live, Matthew determined -  _ unless God has other ideas. _

One leg swung up and swept the rising soldier’s legs out from under him. The man didn’t even have time to cry out as he plunged headlong backwards, the Devil’s knee on his chest; applying pressure just-so. Matt caught the incoming whizz of a bayonet sweeping past his face, and one hand shot up to snag the attacker’s forearm, bashing the musket itself against the other man’s jaw. There was a crush of bone and a gush of blood as cartilage collapsed. The muffled agony was met with Matt’s nasty smile as he swung the musket around in his hands and bashed the end of the rifle against another approaching attacker. The man beneath his knee went limp and Matthew rose, soundless on his feet, dissembling the gun as he walked along.

Piece by piece, the ammunition and the elements of the weapon fell to the wayside, almost musical. 

Two more of Rand’s men, fresh from their tumble in the hay, were patrolling the other side of the street. It was in their hygiene habits; well-kept as they were - the scent of some cologne that spoke of value. Riches. Wealth. Comfort. They had coffee and tea and gunpowder on their skin. They had charcoal still being picked out of their teeth. Pineapple and rum chased them, too, and one walked with a stride that spoke of loose-limbed indifference. Walking drugs out of his system - Matt could taste the opiates in his sweat on the air. 

It drove a white-hot spike of menace through him, a charged fuse to a hungry cannon.

_ Fire. _

He barely stifled the roar of satisfaction he felt as his shoulder collided with a soldier’s back - one man pulling a pistol with a sharp snarl that cut off too soon. Matt grabbed the man ‘round the throat as he swung out of the way of the shot fired; the blast by his ear making his world ring and warp. But he didn’t have time to care.

All that mattered was a little revenge. Protect this boy; this  _ Danny,  _ whoever he was, and show Rand that no matter where he went, he wouldn’t get what he wanted. Perhaps it was the drink, or the wrath, or the fact that this man had taken more from Matthew than he cared to admit - 

Whatever the case, it could be a collection of things. It was a trove of endless sorrows singing in the bottom of his chest, open wounds spilling like rubies. Tears of sapphires. He was the inferno into which the greedy fell; crowned in their golden follies. He was the boiling oil. He would be the sword Michael refused to wield; its own weapon and its own right. Justice had scales  _ and  _ sword, and he would behead with an edge any who chose to try and thwart what was  _ right. _

He cracked on with it - the head he’d held against the side of a building, the blunt wedge of his foot against a knee to blow it out and drop a soldier to the ground. Crack,  _ crack. _ His head met the second man’s and Matthew kicked him away, a quick thrust to the chest from the sole of his boot. One hand snagged the shirt of the officer he’d just rattled the brains of and wrenched him upright on his jellied legs, speaking through his teeth:

“Go back t’yer captain. Tell’im ‘is kind’s not welcome’re. Tell’im t’e Devil’s comin’ fer’im.” Matt’s teeth shone; starry and fierce, a furnace from Heaven made for Hell - so sweet the word, so hot the hate. 

“Tell Captain Rand ‘e’ll know what it is t’ _ burn. _ ”

Matt dropped the officer, who scrabbled away at once - abandoning his friend, but of course, there was no loyalty to account for in a pack of hungry dogs. Fine as their garments were, sweet as their perfumes - they were still, at the end of the day, English fleabags who’d turn on their own bitch mothers for a farthing more than what they had the day before.

Thieves had more honor. Matt’s head tipped back toward the skies as he heard Peter whisper a “ _ what the hell _ ” from on high - followed by a low, shaky laugh from Eddie that sounded as admiring as it was full of disbelief. Smirking to himself, Matt caught the side of the building where the ivy and ferns grew thick as lichen on a headstone, and hauled himself upward. Easy enough, and he was two buildings off from where he needed to be. 

Spanish moss rustled as Matt swung through the trees between tall structures, banyans giving way to palms and similar again. Before Eddie and Peter had time to even catch their breath from the display, Matt was perched; smugly, back on the balcony’s rail, a gargoyle in the gloom with the swishing boughs behind him. His eyes all but shone in the shade, embers in a face kissed by the night. 

“Satisfied?” Eddie asked after a moment. Peter could only stare, his mouth partially-open in a daze. Matthew thought it over - the risk he’d taken, knowing what this could mean, and whether or not they’d all live to see tomorrow - and decided, yes. 

“Almost,” he said, nose crinkling - then, rising neatly on the railing of the balcony, pulled Peter in by the face, taller than him for the time being, to kiss him soft and slow before the pearly stare of the moon. Eddie watched the alabaster hue bathe them both in diamonds; mesmerized beyond the vortex of doubt, guilt, and fading drink - 

Then found himself pulled in as well, Matthew catching him around the jaw to pull him close. Their lips met, and Eddie’s hand found the side of the balcony to steady himself. Peter sighed, sinking inward, an arm wrapping around each of them.

Whatever the morning brought, they could face what the Devil had wrought. They had to, after all - 

Like the tide, Hell’s punishment was relentless. The force of it could drag one below. 

But Matthew, bound and determined, rose like flame to bathe the night crimson - to make them all see, even in paradise, the world he’d been doomed to inhabit. 

At least it wasn’t till morning that the bells began to sound.


	11. Now's the Time to Rouse Yourselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a vacation destination has to be, uh. Reconsidered. Because reasons. Yeah.

###  “We need to pack it up and leave.”

Eddie’s heavy coat crashed over him on the bed; roused from fitful slumber where his dreams were of gargoyles coming to life on the churches back home. 

Matthew, already up and dressed, slipped into the second of his boots with soundless ease, his head cocked toward the door. Peter, too, was awake - if it could be called as such, given the sleepy state of his face and the creases from the bed still pressed into his cheek. But he was upright [in the sense that he was vertical] and he was conscious [in the sense he was mumbling about breakfast]. 

“Wh’time izzit,” Eddie muttered, sliding out of bed and slithering into his coat promptly. His boots he thrust on quick as well - belt and dagger following suit. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Matthew replied flatly - one hand dramatically lifting to shift back the raggedy curtain of their room to reveal the sunlight spilling in above the palms. Down in the streets, men of His Majesty’s army marched below - bayonets gleaming, uniforms pristine. Far more naval officers than those of the evening prior. 

“Turns out actions have consequences on the shore,” Peter remarked ruefully - and Matt let the curtain fall back into place, jaw harder than diamond as he ground his teeth.

“I don’t regret what I’ve done,” he said decisively, “and I’d do it again in due course. But fer now, we’ve got to move.”

“We could’ve spent the Winter here,” Peter complained, shrugging his bag over his shoulder, golden hair on end and features twisted with annoyance. “But nooo, someone had to act on decades of vengeful planning  _ the second  _ we got off the ship.”

“It was several hours,” said Matthew, never one to back down from an argument when one presented itself, “but by all means. Continue t’whine and risk us the time we need t’gat’er t’e ot’ers and get back to t’e ship.”

Grumbling, Peter wrenched the door open and swirled off in a ripple of long rusty coat, his boots quickening their pace down the hallway the moment the door closed. Gamora would be easiest to rouse; and most likely to help in the waking of others - provided they all were where they said they were.

Eddie and Matt slipped away after Peter - Matthew abandoning the guise of the Devil for that of a nondescript sailor - if his freckly, sun-touched features and scarred eyes were ‘nondescript’, of course. 

He spent a great deal of time flexing and fixing his face, though Eddie didn’t understand why - till his arm was taken, Matthew’s free hand untying his hair and letting it tumble down in waves like sunset on water.

“What -”

“Just act natural,” Matthew said quietly - and, with one last slight maneuver of his jaw, fashioned his expression into something much more charming and serene - a smile beatifically adorning a now near-unrecognizable set of features. He looked - younger, with his hair down, with a grin on his face that didn’t seem like he was about to take the viewer’s throat between his teeth. “Fer now,” he said through those teeth, steering Eddie and himself out into the hallway, “just till we get back on t’e ship - I’m but a man.”

“...Ye’re but a man besides,” Eddie ventured - and grimaced as the hand on his arm tightened marginally, thumb working across the forearm in a place that pinched something  _ awful. _

“Be careful wit’ yer silver tongue, Edward Brock,” the Devil warned, “t’ere’s a place in Hell yet fer t’e men who goad ot’er men to violent acts.”

“You’ve seldom needed any goading,” Eddie muttered, slipping his English accent back into place as if it were another garment to adorn. Matt huffed a laugh through his sharp nose and shrugged, cheek pressing briefly to Eddie’s bicep as he moved them out of the way of a maid bustling by. 

“Not where ye’re concerned, no, I’d say not,” Matthew said - and Eddie couldn’t help but crack a smile himself at that - 

With a little turn, they were down the hall - and adjacent to a small door across from the steps. The sound of feet in marching formation seemed louder now - just how many men  _ were  _ down there in the streets of Tortuga? Eddie didn’t want to venture any sort of estimated guess. A few of the redcoats had rambled into the halls - butts of guns bursting locks off doors as they made their rounds; unstoppable and cold. Matthew took Eddie’s arm and swept them back through the little door, and down the spiraling steps of the servant’s entrance they descended - like soot spiraling down into Hell.

“Don’t look back,” Matthew advised as they plunged the few stories needed to get back outside. Eddie; dizzy from one glance down the barrel of the staircase, kept his gaze trained straight ahead. Empty though his stomach was, it heaved somewhat at the way the narrow steps and the high spiral worked together to upend him - and unexpectedly, he found himself clinging tightly to Matthew in the process.

They made it to the first floor and found the other Guardians gathered hence - the bartender’s face a murderous mask as Peter spoke softly and paid him in handsome coin.

“Just for consideration, should we ever make our way b--”

“Just go, Quill,” Star-Lin said sharply - and Peter cringed, tipping him a quick salute before drawing upright away from the bar. Each of the Guardians waiting for orders looked more inconspicuous than usual - Gamora had done well to instruct them to dress plainly; all browns and drab grays over their typical colorful garments. 

“Okay - plan is same as it is every time we do London,” Eddie mouthed  _ ‘do London? _ ’ in Gamora’s direction, and was met with a wry lift of brows. Matthew, still tucked to Eddie’s side, listened intently - not to Peter’s issued directions -  _ split up into groups of two. Drax with me, Gamora with Mantis, Groot with Rocket, Matty with Edward… _ \- 

But to the sound of a finger tracing a pistol’s muzzle. There was a clicking pocketwatch somewhere. Water dripped off the spout of the gutter outside. The thatch stank of mold. The clay was baking in the sun. A child was crying two houses over, and - 

_ “--want him alive. Take him back to England and make sure he’s dealt with in the worst way possible. Tower, dungeon, I don’t care! _ ” There. Four streets over, still stinking of Earl Grey. Rand himself, arguing with the nearest of his guards. Matthew’s upper lip curled, and the hand on Eddie’s arm followed suit - till the other man set his hand over Matt’s own, cautiously keeping him close. 

“Let’s just - do as Peter says, alright?” He muttered quietly. “Make it back to the  _ Milano  _ and we won’t have to deal with any of this anymore. Save the war for the ocean another day hence. You’ve done enough.”

“Never enough,” Matthew murmured, but fell silent - Peter touched his hand with a gentle brush of fingers and, unbothered by anything, leaned in to press a quick kiss to his temple. The Devil melted away; revealing the boy beneath again - freckled, startled, and shifting on his feet with a modest hang of his head.

“See you soon,” Peter murmured - and one hand lifted to brush Eddie’s chest, the ring on the chain jingling a little from the impact. How it had survived this long, how any of them had - remained a mystery. But Peter locked eyes with Eddie, and suddenly, the desire to keep going rekindled tenfold. The weariness fled. In Peter’s stare, the impossible - the improbable. The quiet chaos of a rainbow and a storm; all wrapped in the frond-soft colors of a jungle. Peter smiled, and Eddie forgot all the doubts, fears, worries, and pains of reality.

“Both of you,” Peter told him - and, snagging Drax’s arm, stole off through the side entrance. Mantis and Gamora glided off together in a wave of jasmine and hibiscus, and Groot swung Rocket up to his shoulder with a nod to the two men who remained, taking his time in departing as he always seemed to do - the lumbering lunk was never in any hurry. Eddie would’ve laughed, were he not wary of letting any emotions back in till they were safe and sound.

His hand over Matt’s on his arm for a moment longer, Eddie took a breath and dove outside, the Devil in perfect harmony with the length of his stride.

Off they trotted - strolled, really, as Matthew guided them around carts and across bustling streets being cleared out by angry soldiers. His pace and pulse threatened to quicken, but Matthew’s both were steady as the rhythm of a rowing oar. 

“Steady on, steady on, t’ere’s a lad,” he was soothing as they walked by fishmonger and soldier alike - carts nearly upturning in the wake of Rand’s unbridled wrath. “Pity t’ey won’t find what t’ey’re lookin’ fer,” he added blithely - a curl to the corner of his mouth that had stayed innocent for so long. Eddie snorted, deliberately turning his face from the approach of a soldier with murder in his coal-black eyes. They weren’t human, this lot - of that much, he was certain.

“You think this is funny, do you?” Eddie asked quietly as they shifted their way through an alleyway lined with silks and scarves for sale; millions of colors mingling in kaleidoscopic purview. Matthew shrugged with his mouth, eyes twinkling a little.

“Aye, perhaps a bit,” he said - and ducked a plank of wood carried by a man that nearly took Eddie out in his entirety. “Ah, should’ve said ‘move’, t’ere, t’ought ye knew t’at was coming.”

Eddie, heart hammering from the near-collision that still caught his shoulder, scowled at the mock-sweet expression of the man at his side. They were nearly to the ship, albeit the docks were teeming with soldiers. The men were asking sharp questions, all in barked English, accents sharp as cracking shots fired through the air. Accusatory; merciless, they wove through the streets of Tortuga, the Knowhere beyond watchful - faces at every window. 

_ Don’t look back, _ Matthew had warned him - too late, he recalled - as Eddie turned to find himself at the end of a sharp blade; a look of irritation on the young officer’s face. 

“Watch where you’re going.”

“Sorry, sir,” Eddie offered his most brilliant smile, hand folding over Matthew’s own on his arm. The Devil was at bay, his meek expression tipped toward the ground, hair around his face. “I was just helping my friend here, y’see, he’s--”

“Stand up,” the soldier ignored Eddie, “show me your face.” Matthew inhaled and braced himself, lifting his head. Unfocused brown eyes found the sun without dilation; the distant expression one of neutral bemusement - as if the navy man was inquiring about the weather to a man who’d never been out-of-doors.

“...He’s blind,” Eddie finished his initial thought, eyes narrowing in disapproval at the soldier in question. The officer had the good upbringing to look sufficiently abashed, inclining his head in apology.

“Ah - then carry on.” No apology came, though Eddie could tell the man wanted to crawl under a rock - they train and beat the sorries out of men like him, however, once he joined up in the ranks of His Majesty’s navy. Eddie knew that much from what he’d seen of those who went off bright-eyed and came back angry and sullen. All the good was leeched into the work they did for the King, and all that work meant was to conquer and devour. They were practically sharks in the suits of mankind, and Eddie had half a mind to kick any of them into the shallow water off the pier as he and Matthew continued their journey, but - 

As he was a coward, so he chose not to after all.

Peter and the Guardians had made their way to the Milano, Mantis and Gamora the last to arrive, though Eddie witnessed Gamora hand Mantis off to Peter - who promptly caught his crewmate in a hug, unable to resist the reach of her arms. The soft moment made everything that much more surreal - less a grim stalk down to the gallows, and more an opportunity to flee back to their life on the sea. Their lives  _ together. _

Matthew, gritting his teeth behind his pleasant expression - purposefully neutral and even amicable - fought with himself and his horde of demons over whether or not he should turn tail and head back into town. Rand was exactly where he had been half an hour since they’d started off, and he could hear him smacking away on a nectarine that’d been just about to turn. The sickly-sweet scent of almost-rot cloyed in his senses, damn near driving him to dig in his heels and about-face.

He sought other news instead as he and Eddie strode down the docks together, Matt moving far too smooth and swift for a man allegedly blind, but - 

“ _ \--tell Brock to prepare the necessary papers. We’ve not yet reached the end, and if they’re together--” _

Brock.

“Almost there, Matthew,” Eddie murmured, eyes trained on the ship. Peter waved his hat in greeting, the jaunty feather fanning on the breeze that smelled like rum, sea salt, and coconut. They were nearly in the clear. 

“ _ And what of Quill?” _

_ “Bounty’s price suffices for our means. The King’s ransom is quite literally that. Brock assured us of that much.” _

**_Brock._ **

_ Again _ .

It was  _ not  _ a common name - not by a long shot. The sound of it wrenched Matthew’s jaw tight; drew his shoulders back, and, without warning, he swung up an arm to  _ slam  _ Eddie against one of the piers’ supports. Eddie’s own knife he’d drawn in the process, wedged up under his chin so close to the pulse that with every jump in his throat, Eddie came closer to dancing with death.

“Ye,” Matthew breathed. “Once a coward an’ a traitor,  _ always  _ a coward and a traitor.” The knife inched closer and Eddie flinched back, head colliding with the wood as breath struggled to return to his lungs. “Who is he t'ye?"

"Matt," Peter cautioned, having leapt over the side of the ship to the docks below - startled out of his merriment as the eager expression drained from his features. Eddie, scrabbling for purchase, found it harder still to breathe beneath Matt's calloused hand - much less answer.

" **_WHO_ ** ," the Devil snarled, " _ IS HE _ ? Rand! Who is he t’ye? TELL ME!"

" _ Matthew _ ," Peter said, much more sharply. His hand caught the Devil’s bicep and swung him around with a fierce shake. Knife still clenched in his hand, Matthew growled up at Peter, who insisted with an urgency unparalleled, "not here!"

They’d already caught the attention of the officers patrolling the docks. Peter whistled shrilly - a sound he’d learned from a man who’d taught him how to sail long ago; how it carried and pierced the air defied logic and reason - and Drax bellowed back, wrenching down the sails. Gamora drew her blades, waiting - as thunder began to crack across the horizon, the wind beginning to turn. 

_ Everything  _ began to turn.

“There - stop them!” Peter let go of Matt at once, nudging him sharply.

“C’mon - onto the ship, let’s go, there’s a good lad -”

“Get off me,” Matthew spat, “an’  _ ye, _ ” his face jutted toward Eddie, “don’t ye t’ink about runnin’.”

“I don’t even know what’s  _ happening, _ ” Eddie fired back miserably, “why’ve ye turned on me now?” His voice slipped, the stumbling blocks of Irish mire bogging down his gravelly voice. Matthew blinked, brows furrowing. Logic and reason caught up with him as he bounced on the soles of his feet, agitated.

Eddie wasn’t lying.

He really had no idea - and why that was, remained to be seen - 

“I don’t  _ know  _ Rand,  _ leannán _ ,” Eddie said, so soft and so mournful Matt wanted to cover his ears, “please believe me.” 

The honesty was in the heart, and the heart was what he heard. Strong, steady, a little bit frightened - but only of how he’d behaved just now, reacting as he did. Matthew swallowed what felt like a throatful of knives and shoved Eddie’s dagger back to him. The other man sheathed it, finger coursing over the handle of the blade as if to ensure all was intact. A faint line of crimson crept down his neck, the mark an infraction.

A violation of a tentative trust.

Unable to stop the hate from rising, Matthew simply turned and, powered by the will to survive and the anger he always carried, lunged forward up the receding rap to the  _ Milano,  _ feet all but flying in the process. Eddie followed suit, staggering a little from the way the ship  _ tore  _ away from the docks, ropes and anchor heaving - 

And with the wind shockingly swift at the backs of their sails, they were off - barreling toward the brink of the sea that awaited them, with a new form of Hell at their heels.

“So much for a vacation,” Peter muttered, and, because he had no other choice, put his hands on the wheel of the ship, raised his eyes to the horizon, and reached out with a wish of choppy waves for all but his beloved vessel - and the crew within.

As if bowing to their king, the trees and waves alike dipped low, and performed another unholy miracle to usher them off Tortuga.


	12. Unbury the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gents discuss their past histories to varying degrees to keep moving forward.

###  “Alright, t’en, Mr. Brock. Tell us yer sorry tale.”

The ship was far out to sea now - leagues away from Tortuga, Eastbound to the falling sun. Peter had steered them out of eminent danger, the naval officers delayed by the sudden onslaught of a tropical interception. The air had thickened and spread with fog before the lightning came - all of which the  _ Milano  _ miraculously avoided - though how much of a miracle remained a mystery to Eddie and Matthew alike.

The three men sat in the Captain’s quarters, the glow of a lantern between them. The hours of sailing had led them toward dusk, and in the gathering gloom, shadows chased the lines of Eddie’s face as he bowed forward. Peter shot Matt a look of moderate annoyance at either the way he chose to sit - perched like a bird about to launch from a cathedral gutter - or by his choice of words in breaking the silence.

“This is not an interrogation,” Peter said quietly, a couple of fingers motioning for Matt to  _ stand down  _ \- something he couldn’t see, but he could  _ feel. _ The Devil in question made a face, then sprawled, settling back on the chair after a moment - though still coiled; somehow. Still poised to strike; as-needed. “We just need to know as much as possible about one another moving forward, I think.”

“Particularly him,” Matt said dryly, motioning to Eddie. The record-keeper inhaled slowly, and, weaving broad hands together, shifted his weight on his chair. The fingers fell to the table; clasped as if in prayer, and Eddie leaned over them, head still inclined.

“...Matthew says he heard my name; the  _ Brock  _ name, out there in the streets of Tortuga,” Eddie muttered, one hand scrubbing the length of a face bushy with beard. Peter’s eyes flickered Matt’s way, then back again, considering. “And there’s a chance...he might’ve. But it’s not me.” Eddie swallowed around a sudden discomfort in his throat; the weight of the world lodged against his pulse and windpipe. “My father. Carl Brock. An English officer - quite high up in the naval forces.”

Silence fell; till Matt rolled it off his shoulders and swept in, leaning over the table to close the distance between himself and Eddie just enough. Sightless amber eyes swept the table; contemplating, as Matt debated where to take the conversation. Peter, however, held an expression of understanding - realization followed by concern, but something of a kindred emotion kindled in his face. Eddie had to turn his own from the light of that sympathy. He couldn’t bear it.

“T’at why ye hide who ye are, truly?” Matt asked flatly, eyes narrowing. Eddie’s jaw tightened, and Matt heard the telltale flicker of unrest in Eddie’s chest. “T’ought so.”

“T’Hell d’ye know,” Eddie snapped, dropping the ruse - and Matthew  _ smiled;  _ grim and terrible, in acknowledgment of how swiftly he’d convinced Eddie to let his walls down. “T’at’s right,” he told Peter - who’d heard the accent, but not put two and two together [that Eddie knew of, anyway], “I’m from Eire likewise. Leitrim-born. Dunnae about ye,” he shot Matt’s way, the Devil lifting his brows in bemusement. “But aye, from t’e same place. Ye want t’know why I hide myself? Why I blend wit’ t’e English? Because t’at’s t’e only way I’ve known t’live t’is long,” he looked back at Matt, then remembered to take a breath.

“My fat’er’s son - a  _ bastard  _ son, my mot’er, God rest’er, buried back in t’e hills o’home. When I was but six,” Eddie added, the  _ s  _ hissed through his teeth as he clenched them together. His fists followed suit, the worn, leathery hands clenching the air. “ _ Six,  _ alone, tryin’ t’adapt. Rememberin’ it all, every last bit’uv it - when t’e English came back and by his own hand he -” Eddie’s throat bobbed as his lips pressed shut. Peter, despite all his warnings otherwise, reached out a hand to settle on his shoulder. The lithe weight of the adorned hand; so much finer than his, brought minimal comfort - and multitudes of shame. Hanging his head, Eddie inhaled slowly once again.

“T’at man is pure evil, it’s true. But I like t’believe I could be my mot’er’s son yet. Brock runs the protection of the highest ships in the navy - ships like the  _ Spartoi  _ and the  _ Iron Fist. _ ” He risked a glance up; surprised to see the tension on Peter’s face - now fit to match Matt’s own. Something Eddie had said, no doubt, had triggered it. He held Peter’s stare for a moment before his eyes dropped back down to his hands, old scars and ink offset by the flame of the lantern in the center of the trio.

“...So I cloak myself,” Eddie said, voice once more the neutral purr of London’s middle-upper classes, “I hide myself. To remain undetected. To survive. Perhaps it’s not honorable, and it’s far from brave, but I’ve lived this long for it. And I intend to keep on doing so…” His eyes traveled to the merciless expression on Matthew’s face.

“For as long as I’m allowed.”

“...Alright,” Peter said slowly, a couple of fingers tapping against the table, “good to know. Matt, does this satisfy your curiosity?” The jaw of the Devil couldn’t tighten further if it tried, but, eyes mere slits of honey-brown, the man beneath the mutinous expression seemed to consider his options carefully.

“...Who was yer mot’er?” Eddie’s eyes flashed and the tense shift in his shoulders threatened violence. His hands balled, then relaxed, and, with difficulty, he forced himself to speak again. Peter’s soft “Matthew” did nothing - the hand on the Devil’s arm this time a warning come too late.

“Alma,” Eddie replied quietly, “her - her name was Alma. She was - a midwife in the village. Storyteller, too.” His hands shrugged, then folded. “Carl met her, fell in love with her - supposedly wanted to defect, for her, but - he left one day and only returned seven years after to carry out orders. They break the good out of a man in his Majesty’s Service, but -” Blue eyes full of hate burned holes in the table. “I don’t think he ever had any to begin with.”

They were all quiet once more. Up above on the decks, Mantis was singing - she and Gamora working on the small repairs needed for upkeep; untangling rigging lines. Drax could be heard stomping around alongside the elongated; loping gait of Groot. Rocket must’ve been asleep; for his squabbling voice didn’t rise up at all. Everything was stillness. 

“...Tell me  _ your  _ tale,” said Eddie at long last. “Both of you. No more secrets, not if we can help it.” Peter and Matt moved in place a little, and Peter drew his hand away from Matt’s arm at last. The  _ Milano  _ rocked, tender as a child’s cradle. Feeling his throat constrict again, Eddie added, sorrow on his tongue: “ _ please. _ ” Who knew how long they could last out here, now that the weather was set to shift? Although - 

Again, it had shifted in their favor.

“...I was born in a village t’at no longer stands,” Matthew said slowly. The room fell still around him; silent and watchful as a ghost before a grave. The low timbre of his voice was that of a cello string weaving strong notes through the air. As he did in most instances, without trying, Matthew Murdock commanded attention.

“When I was young, my fat’er upset the English occupying our fair village,” he murmured, thumbs stroking flesh as Matt worked his hands back and forth. Molding something unseen. Working out the nervous energy that came with the truth - though he seldom lied, he also seldom spoke of himself. And as such, this path was unchartered territory - a level of trust that caused naught but discomfort.

“Wouldn’t do as t’ey asked, one day. So - t’ey went around doin’ as t’ey pleased, upturnin’ carts, attackin’ folk - I wouldn’ae stand fer it, so…” His mouth twisted; cruelly wry. “I took my shoe from my foot an’ I flung it at an officer. Stuck t’e mud to his face ‘fore I helped an old man t’is feet. T’ey said…” At this, Matt huffed a laugh, shrugging with his thumbs. “T’ey said t’ey saw t’e Devil in my eyes, and...t’ey’d burn him right out of me.” It was his turn to lose his breath; to feel the tensing of his throat and the uneasy rise of bile. Peter, one hand worked through his hair, half-hunched over the table - mesmerized in horror. 

For a moment, both he and Eddie swore they could hear the agonized screams of a child; the clomping of hooves through muddy roads, and the snarled orders of the officers that’d done the wicked deed.

“...you protected your town,” Peter whispered finally, when Matt seemed to struggle to move on. The Devil raised his brows and nodded slowly, expression wry.

“Aye. T’at I did, or...tried to.” His hand swept through his hair, threading behind his head. “Legend; rumor - whatever - says t’at a man who cannot see cannot find love. T’e soul travels t’rough t’e eyes, y’see, to find its home in anot’er.”

“ _ Anam cara, _ ” Eddie said, realizing. Matt and Peter seemed to ‘look’ at one another, then nodded - as one.

“Aye. T’at exactly,” Matt pressed on tiredly. “But blind a man, t’e soul is trapped. Goes rotten wit’ nowhere to be, can’t look upon t’e face o’ God, nor anyt’in’ under Heaven. I was never meant to know love, to survive - my fat’er died shortly thereafter an’ I…” His face flexed with rage; the tic embedded in his cheek flaring from the way his teeth ground together. 

“I vowed t’at day forward t’never let t’em rest. No one would sail t’e ocean an’ cause pain like t’at again. No one would burn a village; shoot men in cold blood, nor blind children. No one would ever…” His voice broke and his hands rose up to cover his face, pads of his fingers skimming the infernal webs of scars around eyes like twin furnaces in the dark.

There was a lengthy breath of anxious silence. 

Then:

“An’ so I became t’at which  _ t’ey  _ saw,” Matt murmured, picking his head back up from his palms with a wretched sigh. “T’e Devil.”

For a moment, all Eddie could do was gaze at Matthew - and Matt, to his credit, kept his face trained Eddie’s way. Understanding flowed between them with such force that he almost couldn’t stand it. The two boys and their broken beginnings in a land ransacked by enemies in power. No home, no family to claim or be claimed by. They had more pain in common than that besides - as Matt, little by little, reached across the table in a rare form of gentleness, his fingers curling around Eddie’s own. 

Both shook; silent.

“I’m sorry, Edward.” Matt drew his hand up to his mouth to kiss Eddie’s ink-splattered digits, not once, but twice. His lips pressed first the knuckles; then the soft place where finger met palm. Eddie released a sigh he didn’t notice he was holding, curling tight around the tender offering. “I shouldn’ae be so quick t’judge ye.” 

“I’d judge me quickly too,” Eddie cautioned swiftly - and the two broke together into nervous laughter that eased the air. Peter swallowed, knowing he was next. Knowing no matter how far and how fast he could sail; he could  _ run,  _ it would always catch up with him.

The past, and all Hell with it.

A hand settled; soft, against the side of his face, Matt keeping his grip on Eddie tenderly - while touching Peter opposite. Drawing him in the same way he had the day they’d met - with an unexpected warmth, instant endearment.  _ Little deer,  _ Peter’d teased him that night, kissing each of his freckles as best he could.  _ My little fawn so far from the forest.  _

He’d known Matt to be his the moment he saw him. Even without being seen in return - the spirit didn’t need  _ eyes  _ to travel. Peter’d told him as much when they lay together that night, Matt huddled up shy in his arms; so  _ surprisingly  _ shy - not new to this in the slightest. Other than the intimacy that came from the softness of caresses. Being told to  _ slow down,  _ to  _ ease in,  _ to enjoy - Peter checking on him, making sure he knew all was well, vocal and adoring in return.

And then they’d curled around one another, fire and smoke entwined at last. And Peter had kissed the forked scars that seared around his eyes; Matt’s forehead and crown. All the way; any way, his entire being Peter poured his affections into. Taught him that he could and  _ should  _ be touched with  _ kindness. _

And like someone starved for it, as if he’d never eaten in his life, Matthew gobbled it all up and asked for more. And  _ gave  _ more in return, till Peter knew for certain that he was  _ wanted. _ Wanted, and  _ ‘seen’. _ Because Matt knew his moods, his movements, everything - they worked in tandem, elements happily balanced, and - 

Eddie had freed a set of fingers to fold over Peter’s on the table, and all three of them were finally joined together properly. This was the man who’d held himself back for so long; who’d much rather disappear into the misty mires. Eddie, who thought only that he deserved to be  _ forgotten. _ Hiding in the background as if he wasn’t a part of the stories he’d been writing. Peter’s eyes watered a little as he clung back; clutching Matt’s wrist, Eddie’s hand. Clammy and trembling, he waited for the inevitable. 

“Peter,” Matthew said quietly, “ _ anam cara. _ ” His heart soared at the words; both of theirs did, swallows swooping, terns on the breeze arcing ever-higher. Eddie, tugging on his sleeve, drew him back to the earth - to the sea - a much-needed grounding, lest his mind and impulse to run race away without him. 

“Tell us,” Eddie and Matt implored. Blue eyes searched his face, and Matt’s touch followed suit. Before them, Peter crumpled slightly - the confident, cheerful swagger diminishing to something of a child’s uncertainty around strangers.

But there was no skirt to hide behind, no mother to protect a son. In this room full of motherless men, there was only the sound of their support of one another. Strong as the beams of the ship that supported them hence, cutting a clear path through the waters ahead. Waves lapped and wind sighed. Peter dove deeper into himself with a little dip of tongue across the scar on his lip.

“...I was born in England,” he said carefully at long last, “to - to Meredith Quill. My...my mother.” His voice frayed with fondness. With  _ grief. _ He mourned her even now - of course he did. This sort of ache didn’t go away, even after all his adventures and his desire to fly through life by the seat of his pants. Adrenaline and excitement were balms that came and went. There were still nights he lay awake for a little while. Just - thinking of her. And the last time they ever spoke.

“She was outcast - a child in wedlock, you know how it is,” Peter shrugged, fidgeting his fingers in Eddie’s own. Matt’s hand fell away to find Peter’s other, and the Captain pushed himself forward, stubbornly-inclined though he was to stay in the moment [rather than relive the past]. “Eventually, she took us both on a journey to an island...far off England’s coast, almost nowhere. Just...a little crescent moon. White sand and cliffsides to fly kites off of. To...carry our music.” Peter inhaled and blinked; tears trickling down a nose he rubbed against his shoulder, trying to stave them away.

“Eventually she - I mean, she was...she was never - well, after childbirth, I think, though...she said my father was...a good man, he couldn’t stay with us - but she taught me to...to try and be brave, to think with my heart; my mind, rather than react with my fists...she was strong, but…” At this point, his voice had faded away to all but  _ nothing. _

“Anyway, I -” wetting his lips, Peter closed his eyes. The waves beneath the  _ Milano  _ tossed and turned; restless on their seabeds. “I...was ten or so. When she - yeah. She told me - she told me I could always talk to her, always...see and feel her, even after she was gone, and she said...she said - ‘Peter, you have...the power to forge your own future. Your destiny; your  _ fate… _ just remember, baby…’” His voice wavered.

“‘Just remember that the world is yours, and you can ask anything of it’.” His eyes, bright and wide in the dark, darted between either man as Peter held fast to them - anchors in the storm.

“So I - I asked for the world, the universe, to give me a way out...I asked for the future. For the sky to show me the way I needed to go...and then…” His smile  _ burst  _ forth; dazzling, wild. “It - did. Lightning...quite literally struck the ground between my feet, and it showed me a ship in the distance. I started a fire - and it came to me...and the rest…” He released both men at last, motioning in a would-be-grand way to himself; laughter soft and shaky. “You know that part. Best pirate there ever was or will be.”

“Truly,” Matthew acknowledged, and his face was warm - loving, even. Peter melted under the weight of it, though Eddie stayed stoic [save for the dampness gathering in his gaze].

“...who was it, Peter?” Eddie asked softly. There was a cry from above, and Peter glanced upward -  _ “land! Land ho!” _ \- before rising smoothly to his feet, tugging his jacket into place. Sniffing a little, he pointed with a nod toward the steps, a little bit of mischief in his face once again.

“Why don’t you come up and find out for yourselves?” Eddie and Matt withdrew from their chairs, and, after a moment, Matt curled his fingers around Eddie’s arm once more. Still tense from it all, Eddie froze for a moment - till Matthew pressed his brow to Eddie’s own and lingered there, tenderly.

“I was wrong,” he said, just for Eddie - Peter, finally free of his past, finally free of the stories, weeping up the stairs with a force  _ not  _ to be reckoned with, “and fer t’at I will always be sorry.”

Eddie wound a hand around the back of Matt’s head after a moment, drawing himself in as close as he could to the Devil - not the Devil anymore, but the  _ man  _ again. They shared a breath; a heartbeat, and for a moment, Eddie had to wonder if the soul could wander more than one way. If love was not a bolt of singular lightning, but a forking arc through which all power flowed. 

He was  _ struck  _ by it, again. That  _ feeling  _ of  _ rightness  _ he found nowhere else but with  _ them. _

Matthew most of all, in the way they just - knew one another.

_ To be seen and to be known. _

“Don’t be sorry,” Eddie said, barely more than a whisper. “Just be as you are. Keep fighting. I’ll fight with you. I’m a coward...but I’m  _ your  _ coward, Matthew.” The other man grinned in spite of himself, that telltale huff of mirth escaping him at last. Eddie searched his face, then kissed his brow, and took him by the hand.

“Teach me t’be brave,” he said quietly. 

After a moment, Matt squeezed him, and, with a nod of his head, drew them both up to the surface of the ship.

The journey was far from over, but in this moment, he felt perhaps they’d made a stride none of them could take back - for the best, and for the future. 

Whatever it might provide.


	13. To Come Ashore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not quite home, but close enough to it, right?

###  “Ahoy!”

The cannon firing off a round in greeting seemed slightly unnecessary to Eddie [who was close to the one Drax set off, accompanied by a very delighted bellow]. Matt wasn’t particularly thrilled by it either, the burst of smoke causing his nose to crinkle and his hand to briefly tighten on Eddie’s arm. The seriousness of their conversation hadn’t faded, though the distraction, strangely, was a welcome one - one that, in its own way, eased the tension from below-deck, transforming it into something...new.

The ship docked alongside a thin stretch of land fired in reply; the rust-colored boat known as  _ the Arrow  _ home to none other than the Ravager crew.

The Ravagers were infamous as privateers and mercenaries in the waters of the Caribbean - and indeed, everywhere else. Their merciless methods were well-known to Eddie— whose job had been, on one venture, to steer clear of dangers such as their particular methods of “help”— which included fostering such hostile channels that one couldn’t help but request their aid in escaping treacherous waters; guarded by men who spoke of monsters and mayhem. But for the right price, mysteriously, the monsters and mayhem made no headway past the  _ Arrow _ and her ferocious occupants. Captained by a man [practically a monster in his own right] who’d filed his teeth to points; with eyes like blood, their legends were nearly as tall as the tales about Peter Quill himself.

Peter greeted the fearsome man with the half-shaved head as one might an old friend, however, once he’d swung onto his ship with a whooping cry of delight - and Yondu, to his credit, returned the bone-crushing embrace of the captain in question after a moment’s reluctance, swatting Peter a few times on the back before muttering something about “reputation”, and all that. 

“This yer motley crew?” His voice was a craggy copse of palms defiantly rustling in hurricane gales - no wind could break this man’s focus, as those deep eyes - indeed ruddy as the stories said - scanned face to face sharply. Eddie swallowed hard, bracing himself. Matt stood motionless, chin slightly raised. His expression could read as “pleasant” — or “reticent”, if nothing else. 

“This is us, Yondu,” Peter said proudly, gesturing to the gaggle of oddities behind him with a grand sweep of his arm. Hazel eyes twinkled; crinkling a little at the corners. “I think you’ve met Gamora before.” The woman in green responded not at all to Yondu’s grandiose gesture of acknowledgment; his bow one she met with a raised brow and a thin press of her lips. “Drax - Rocket, Groot, Mantis, and…” 

Peter faltered when he got to Matt and Eddie, though not from uncertainty. More like Peter took a moment to look at them - the Devil with his face still bare to the sun and wind, the record-keeper with a nervous expression more anxious by the second - and admire them for what they were. A flame and a shipwreck waiting to happen. 

“...Matthew, and Edward,” Peter said decisively, flashing Yondu a grin as he turned back from the lineup. “...And we need a place to crash for a while. If the island’s okay with it.” His eyes sought answers that he wasn’t sure he’d receive. The crew broke into soft mumbles and titters. 

Yondu, glancing sidelong at Kraglin, noted the near-imperceptible nod that came his way - before motioning with his head for all to disembark from their anchored ships and set foot on the sandy shores. “Fer a while,” he warned, “not ferever. This place ain’t made for year-round visitations and the like. We got rules ‘round here, Peter. Though you’re--”

“Always inclined to break’em, Yon, I know, I know,” Peter drawled, hands flicking away the words with a dismissive shimmy of fingers. Huffing in irritation, one of the most-feared men on the waters and wild stalked off down the plank, trailed after by an overgrown boy with a jaunty feather in his cap, arms swinging haphazardly as he flounced along.

“So - how is it you know Captain Udonta, exactly?” Eddie muttered, hastening along after Peter. Grinning lopsidedly, Peter slung an arm around Eddie’s shoulders to haul him in as if about to reveal the location of a long sought-after treasure. Eddie tensed, waiting for the inevitable revelation.  _ Please tell me he’s not about to- _

“It’s a  _ secret _ ,” Peter whispered conspiratorially, and cackled as Eddie shoved him, though it nearly sent them both off the gangplank and into the shallows around the island.

Matt was quiet behind them as they all disembarked, taking in what he could of the remote spit of land. It smelled of flowers and coconut oil; freshly-cut bamboo and the stink of dense thickets turning to rich earth in the jungle. Sunlight bleached ferns and fronds; damp thatch was present. There’d been timbers cut recently, and a pungent burst of spice alongside fire caught on the breeze. 

Nose crinkling, Matt focused then on the licking lap of a stream, the jaunty music of water over stone - the rustle of branches, chattering monkeys, and hum of insects. Bracing himself for the crunch of sand beneath his well-worn boots, the Devil took a breath and left the ship. Far off across the ocean, they were being hunted - he had to trust that though they stopped for now, all would be well.

Peter, despite what everyone else seemed to think, knew what he was doing.

That much had been apparent the first time they’d truly gotten to know one another. An instantaneous opening of gates after Peter waltzed Matt’s defenses down - spinning him ‘round and ‘round on the decks of the  _ Milano  _ till he could scarcely stand on his own anymore - before spiriting him away just as easily.  _ Effortless. _ The way he’d thrown Matt’s cares, his anger, his grief, his vengeance - all to the wind - 

The wind that seemed to dance with Peter like a partner. 

That second evening, Matt had taken to the ropes after he and Peter had...waltzed off together - and drew him up toward the sky again. He’d felt it - in a way his spirit seldom spoke with anything but sparks of wrath:  _ “‘t’e sky misses ye. _ ”. A sky full of stars as sunset came and dyed everything “the color of topaz”, though Matt could only imagine what Peter meant by that. In his world of fire, Peter was its brightest center. A hearth to call home, and air fit to breathe. Light in eternal night. A constellation himself. 

There’d been some hesitation, Peter’s time on the ropes a long ways back rusty, awkward laughter rising as he’d flailed his way initially off the deck. Taller now; stronger than he had been, he chased after Matt in a whirl of energy, eager to return to childhood - to the youth that’d nearly been stolen from him. No wonder he clung to it so tightly.

And they’d found a freedom in the frolicking air, walking the tethers together. Up they’d risen, with the ship on the swells, surfing the horizon and tasting the breeze. It carried the salt of distant lands; the burning ash of ships afire in the distance, gunpowder and snapped branches. Chlorophyll and ozone from lightning-struck isles yonder, caught on lips of molasses and honey. They’d swung in opposite directions and collided, but Matt had snagged Peter and held him fast, kissing him soft and slow.

“ _ I trust you _ ,” Peter’d blurted when their lips next parted, “ _ I don’t know why, but - I do. I trust you _ .”

And after a beat, before they climbed together to the crow’s nest, hands entangled and head on each other’s shoulders, Matt had said, whim to the wind and heart on his sleeve: “ _ I trust ye, too _ .”

It was like that even now, as Peter reached back to take Matt’s hand with the arm not currently wound around Eddie’s shoulders. At once, Matt’s tensions eased and flooded free again; his form uncoiling under its layers of dark cloth.

The Ravagers’ home on Zatoa - the name of the crescent island curving across the inlet of warm water - was one they spent the cooler, stormier months hunkered down in, safe among their many procured goods - taken by means of personal muscle, contract, or even thievery. Their houses, high above the trees, connected by a series of ropes, ladders, and bridges, was even more colorful than Peter’s ship - cabins strung together up in the stronger trees.

There was a waterfall nearby that ran into a small river under the canopy, piped hither and thither by carved pieces of metal and plantlife alike. Up and down the funnels ran, carrying liquid with them. Drax and Groot set off for the falls without so much as a beat of hesitation - though a few of the Ravagers chased after them to warn them of the snakes that sometimes came up from the river to sun themselves on the stones.

Mantis meanwhile immediately rushed off after a small troop of simians, her happy chattering filling the air, followed by uproarious laughter. Gamora hung back to speak with another Ravager, her face somber as she motioned with both hands - apparently cluing them in to the situation, whereas Peter seemed content to play things cool. Rocket knelt to examine some of the piping infrastructure, muttering complaints to anyone who’d listen - seemingly only the captain’s first mate; Kraglin, who looked like a man destined for the gallows the moment Rocket waved him over. Yondu turned to glance at Peter, who was watching the dispersal of his people with a fond expression; smile stretched warm and crooked on his face.

“...Y’wouldn’t be here if y’weren’t in actual trouble, though, Peter,” Yondu murmured, nudging him with an arm as the others began to disperse to inspect the little shelters and the myriad of tiny homes. “What’s really goin’ on?” Peter’s half-smile flickered back to life and he shrugged with both brows, gaze traveling Matt and Eddie’s way as the two of them wandered down the path into the thicker trees, Eddie with his head craning back to inspect the buildings overhead, and Matt with his face like a stone; taking things in - his own way.

After a moment, Eddie broke away, his fingers trailing Matt’s side, to point to something - a bucket system of a kind that trawled fresh water from the river, raising it high - Matt made a motion that said  _ you know I can’t see that _ and Eddie cupped his hands to Matt’s ears, grinning suddenly.  _ So listen.  _ The Devil flushed and swatted his hands away, though he was snickering - 

Not unlike Peter himself, who watched the fiasco with an approving stare, expression softly bright. How could it be anything but, looking at them? Despite the danger - or enhanced by it - the feeling in his heart was nothing short of ecstatic. Little pieces of home, worth more than any pieces of eight, all came together in an instant. And suddenly, he didn’t dread for anything - not that he ever did for long.

“...Don’t tell me you’ve gone and done somethin’ fer  _ love,” _ Yondu muttered, and Peter whipped around as if Yondu’d outright grabbed his ear, gaze wide and affronted.

“I...have done no such thing,” Peter said, his heart skipping a beat he knew, somehow, Matt could hear. Yondu, too, was no stranger to bullshit - and he granted Peter a look that said as much, one brow shifting slightly higher than the other. “Matt - the - uh, the redhead - just...he’s been through a lot. He’s pissed some people off, is the thing.”

“The Royal Navy, from what Retch’s tellin’ me, boy,” Yondu glowered. Peter shut up for a second or two, then hurried on, stammering:

“L--look. Look. Listen. It’s fine. I’ve got this under control. And once things settle down, we’ll be back out on the sea again.” The two captains sized each other up, and Yondu fidgeted absently with the arrow - the emblem of his beloved ship - hooked at his side. The wicked item, permanently red, jutted out between them and the sea. 

“This time of year’s mighty dangerous for that sorta thing,” Yondu pointed out warningly, eyes moving from his one-weapon arsenal and the ocean adjacent. 

Peter inhaled, fingers dipping into his pockets to come up with something worthwhile - buy his way out of it, if sweet talk wouldn’t work. Sometimes wealth helped. A handful of rubies -  _ fine _ . They’d do. His palm unfurled and offered the entirety to Yondu, the winking gems catching the light of midday. The Ravager captain sighed, face hardening. “Y’know you don’t haveta do that, Peter.”

“But I know I’m askin’ a lot,” Peter replied, frowning. “Puttin’ you at risk potentially. More than usual I mean.” Yondu glanced down at the offering once again, then ticked his gaze back to Peter’s face. 

For a moment, the mighty captain was just a boy again — scruffy, underfed, skinny, and small. Defiantly standing in the shores of his mother’s island, looking up at the massive ship rising above the beach. And how the storm that’d blown the  _ Arrow _ off-course took them there. There, in the eye, was an orphan — 

And now, before him again, the same boy, his face no longer streaked with dirt, sporting a neat sandy scruff reminiscent of a seabed. Grown; as much as he was ever going to be. Some parts of him had never hardened to adulthood — like that bleeding heart of his that made for a poor Ravager and a thief who so often gave away his good earnings. Like he did now. 

“...keep it, Peter,” Yondu muttered, shoving the hand offering all its jewels back toward Peter with a nod of his head. “I prefer keepin’ you owin’ me,” he added with the slightest of smirks — one Peter returned after a moment’s confusion, disbelieving chuckle to follow. “ _ Y’and _ the  **Devil** now.”

Peter froze as Yondu began to saunter off deeper into the encampment they both knew so well — not much had changed in a dozen years or so. Yondu could still read him like an open book. 

Not unlike the man who slipped like a shadow up to his side, fingers brushing the brand on his wrist — one that seldom showed. He’d found it the first day, too — his lips pressed to Peter’s veins; the scar of crossed “P” and “R” — he hadn’t had to ask what they meant; hadn’t had to ask Peter his relationship to the Ravagers. 

Like all things between them —  _ anam cara  _ — it was simply something he knew. Instinctively. Peter raised Matt’s knuckles to his lips after a beat and pressed a kiss to them, murmuring into his skin. 

“They’re — not as bad as they seem, I swear. This is just until the fire dies down.”

“T’e one I lit,” Matt pointed out ruefully, swinging their hands together as they dropped back to their sides. Eddie, walking back and forth from space to space within the grove, had taken a few pieces of parchment, a dollop of ink, and a quill — frantically scratching as he strode, pace by pace. Peter’s eyes lingered on him as Matt adder, “one I pray doesn’t make it here. To t’is, yer sanctuary.”

“...my ship is my sanctuary,” Peter countered after a moment, smiling slightly. “And all the people within. And I  _ do _ mean  _ all _ ,” he added gently. Matt’s mouth thinned, then twisted, curving slightly. 

Eddie glanced back at them, hand upraised, as the Ravagers began their apparent duties in maintaining their campsite. Their Winter Home, as it were. Yondu barked orders and Peter exhaled, fingers tightening a little. Matt, undoubtedly sensing the tension, held him nearer still. Soft, but steady, rocking like the tides, untangling him rope by sinewy rope. Peter pivoted in place till they faced one another, and Matt rose a little on his toes. Their brows met, and they breathed as one.

It felt like -  _ love _ . Yondu was right about that, too. Did something to his heart, it did - funny it went along, pitter-pattering anxious and quick. Matt smiled - fleeting, but honest.

“I trust ye, Peter,” he said in a low voice after another breath or two. His hands drew Peter close by the arms, and Peter dragged his gaze away again, this time from those who’d been eyeing Eddie in turn as he paced around, enthusiastically examining everything he could. 

With adoration he felt echoed in his chest; cannon-fire in its own right, Matt’s voice carried Peter gently back to the ground: “I just don’t trust  _ t’em _ .”


	14. Fireside Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a man trying to understand his son's weirdo friend(s), nothing to see here.

###  As it turned out, the feeling of distrust between the Devil and the Ravagers was mutual.

The first day on the island was relatively uneventful - a sort of getting-situated dance the Guardians knew how to perform, but Eddie and Matt stumbled along their own way.

Eddie only mildly upset a couple of the Ravagers by asking what one man said was “too many questions” before promptly snagging Eddie around the ankle with the looped snare he’d stepped into, leaving him to dangle upside-down from a tree. It was Matthew who’d deigned to cut him down, but not before laughing profusely at Eddie’s misfortune. 

“Ye dunnae when t’quit, d’ye, ever, now?” 

“Stop  _ snickering  _ and  _ loose me,  _ Matt’ew!” The Devil had relented, but not before more bouts of laughter followed; sightless eyes full of prismatic honeyed mischief. 

The Ravagers built their home surrounded by their environment, but also as a part of it - thoroughly encased within copses of trees that served as interwoven protection; thickets booby-trapepd so thoroughly that even a few of them were too late in remembering their patterns [“damn you, Retch, I said not to leave the pit covered WHILE WE’RE ALL HERE” “Sorry, Kraglin!”]. The island received an almost all-encompassing view of sun and sea, a full angle from which it’d be ridiculously difficult to attack without warning.

“Can’t be too careful,” one man had said, however - before taking off in a shallow canoe to skim the perimeter of the island. The trees obscured him, but further out on the shore, he was still visible. Apparently, they all took shifts to perform the necessary means of protection - at times of heightened danger, it was really just as well. 

And heightened danger did seem eminent - at least at first. Matthew was tense as they wandered through the village, getting used to the surroundings as they bled into ‘view’ beneath his senses. The wet ground in the denser forest and the creaking of wood made him slightly nauseous - made him think of home, and the work-wagons rolling through the valleys toward the hills of Sligo. Benbulben in the distance, ever-watchful, could only look on in silence at their plight. Knocknarea, where Medb slept, was equally still - no Queen or virtuous hero rose to protect the people.

So Matthew, by the grace of God or some other means, had taken that up - and now, far from his mission, his  _ purpose - _ taking stock of the ground he stood on; surrounded by strangeness and charm...the mix of feelings swirling around within him was indecipherable. He felt angry, he supposed - because he always did, and because he’d come this far and put not only himself at risk, for once, but also those he’d come to call friends and companions - and more than that. He felt relieved that he didn’t have to do this alone; to run and hide from the navy now so fully aware of his presence. He felt  _ shame  _ from such relief. 

The Devil had been alone in Hell for so long he’d forgotten what it was like for other people to occupy the agony with him.

And here - as it did, wherever Peter went - it didn’t feel like agony. 

No - it felt a great deal more like a paradise, with people passing him fruits he was wary of trying [but fresh off the branches of the trees, the citrus spilling bright and zesty over his lips before he even took a bite of something called a  _ pomelo _ , sour-sweet to the point of curling his tongue in his mouth, waking him up in a way he hadn’t anticipated possible] or Drax and Mantis on either side of him, happily pointing out things to one another and laughing in their own languages. The understanding, the welcome, the weight of it - 

All of that bore down on Matt in a way he wanted to shrug off and run from, but he stayed put. Because they had no other choice at present, but also because Peter was close. He was there, and he’d led them to this place, and that place was far from astray.

Strays came here to roost, he realized - hearing the many different dialects, languages, accents, and mishmash of words.This was where Peter had grown his generous spirit, from a boy who had nothing to someone who had everything he could ever dream of. Gone were his days of loneliness - here, Matt could feel the reluctant welcome that was extended family seeing one of their own again.

A few of the Ravagers, of course, seemed less-than-thrilled by Peter’s return - but Matt chalked that up to circumstantial evidence and vowed to keep an ear out for danger. Pulses changing, fear in the air - that sort of thing. So far it seemed all was well, but like the wind [especially around Peter Quill] such things could change at any time.

His other concern was Eddie, Matthew realized - the other man had all but allowed himself to be swept up in the activity - be it trying to help in things he didn’t understand [shooed away from the rope ladders he’d begun to unravel and fix; seeing frays in their material] or asking his infernal and endless questions. The bemusement gave way to amusement outright at his repeated missteps and mishaps, and Matthew found himself smiling a lot more the longer they spent together, letting Peter catch up with Yondu and the rest of the Ravagers’ crew.

“There’ll be plenty o’space for ya to rest tonight,” Yondu declared in passing as he unloaded a box from the  _ Arrow,  _ placing it on one of the shelves to be hefted up into the canopy houses. “Y’can have the cabin nearest the water. Rumor has it you’re attuned to listenin’,” Yondu turned those words upon Matt, and all mirth died at once, the Devil tensely alert again. “So make yourself useful, boy, and--”

“Not a boy,” Matthew interjected. Sharper than intended. The Ravagers’ chatter faded immediately, and Yondu drew himself upright, frowning. Eddie, currently sitting a few feet away furiously scribbling flora details into his sheaf of paper, glanced up with wariness in the language of his body. Peter laughed; soft and uneasy, before clasping his hands together.

“What Captain Udonta is trying to say is--”

“And certainly not one t’take yer orders,  _ sir, _ ” Matthew doubled down. Peter’s hand flicked over his mouth, then his face, despairing behind his fingers. Matt stepped closer to the other man, teeth slightly bared. “I will help, but when an’ where I see fit. Do not t’ink t’order me about like I’m one’o yer crew.”

“When you’re here,” Yondu said, barely waiting for Matthew to exhale following his words, “you  _ are  _ my crew, far as I’m concerned,  _ boy,  _ and if you ain’t gonna treat me with a crumb’o respect, you might as well see yerself right off my island and back out into those waters  _ alone. _ Y’wanna go about doin’ that, now?” Matt’s mouth tightened into a hard, thin line. A strike of further words unspoken. Yondu snorted derisively. “S’what I thought. So when night comes, and you climb on up into that big ol’ tree up there…I suggest you do so with a better attitude. We’ll talk more about this later.”

“Yond--” Peter started to say, but Yondu held up a hand.

“Later,” he repeated, more firmly than before, and struck out over the sand to fetch the next round of goods. 

By the time nightfall came, Matt had only managed to make a handful of other enemies - seemingly just by existing, as he did try not to be an active force of malignance following that conversation. But he startled people without meaning to, manifesting like a shadow behind them - swinging out of the way through the trees like a simian entity himself, causing a stir on the ground below. Restless, he needed to acquaint himself with the area - but he did so in such a way that those around him were unsettled by how easily he slipped into the shade. A shade himself; a  _ spirit,  _ some whispered - fear in their voices as they gave him the space they thought he deserved.

And so when Matthew got up to make himself useful [and perhaps to make some amends for his actions], he was surprised to find himself intercepted by Yondu when he left to get more firewood. The bonfire in the heart of the encampment wasn’t about to refill and refuel itself, after all. But the grip on his arm, steady as it was, offered little room for argument. A quiet “follow me” that came with a silent  _ boy  _ this time the other man blessedly chose not to voice; and Matt obliged. Grudgingly, but he obliged nonetheless, trailing after Yondu into the dark.

“Should we be worried?” Eddie asked Peter, watching the other man’s departure. The ram’s horn full of rum in his hands was all but untouched, Peter noted - and chose to remedy that oversight with a gentle hand cupped under Eddie’s own, tilting the item toward his lips with a knowing quirk of his brow. Gamora was sitting across from them at the fire, lazily going over her latest endeavors with a bunch of attentive Ravagers, all of whom flanked her on either side like the paintings of a palace; enraptured. Her tales of glory and gore distracted from the way Peter tenderly leaned in to butt his head against Eddie’s own.

“Be brave,” he whispered teasingly - and the record-keeper choked a little on the drink, the bone-cup lowering from ruddy, beardy face and blue eyes wide in the darkness. “I overhead you and Matthew earlier. You’re still scared, Eddie?” There was a lull; then a little nod - hesitant; but genuine. “... _ why? _ ” Peter asked, brow crinkling despite his sunny smile. “Why are you still worried? We’ve talked, we’ve faced fire and death; drowning, men overboard, gunfire, soldiers - what more could you have left to fear?”

“A loss,” Eddie said suddenly. Peter’s face froze; watchful. Focused, as if honed in on nothing outside of Eddie in this moment. “A loss so great we cannot contend wit’ it. A loss like no ot’er, t’at no compass or map could find a solution to, Peter.” Two glasses in to the barrel of rum and Peter’s heart  _ warmed  _ so,  _ so  _ easily up to the sound of his name in Eddie’s mouth. Always spoken a bit more softly; as if speaking that, too, was a terrifying concept. As if voicing his name made it all that much truer. That much closer. Peter inhaled slowly around the reeling molasses-sweet alcohol unspooling in his veins - 

Then collapsed dramatically against Eddie, pawing him closer with a hand on the opposite shoulder, trying to turn the other man to face him, greenish eyes agate-jasper. Precious and priceless in the firelight. His smile sprouted; quick as a twining weed, and ensnared Eddie, drawing him in where at first he’d locked up in fright again. 

“You’re not going to lose us, Eddie. Not  _ ever. _ You’re one of us now; a Guardian, a defender of the sea and all its treasures; its elements. We are the ones clearing the passages together, don’t you see? Not a strait beneath the sky we cannot govern to our own ends. We are stronger than all of them. We’ve come so far already. And nothing,  _ nothing  _ will take that away from us. We can never be taken from the sea or the stars. I promise,” he added, seeing that Eddie was unconvinced -  _ probably because I’m drunk,  _ Peter realized with a titter, eyes twinkling anew. “I do! I swear. But going off to fetch firewood or facing down the entire Royal Navy ourselves…” 

A few fingers shrugged, rings catching the light. Peter’s eyes shifted sidelong to his hand, and he raised one digit, thoughtful. “Wait. I’ve got it.”

Fumbling backwards with a wriggle of limbs, Peter freed one of his rings from his fingers - a gold band inlaid with a round onyx stone and a little silver star - before lifting Eddie’s hand to shift it onto his ring finger. Sapphire eyes rounded again and Eddie darted a look between the item and its owner - former owner - uncertainly. Peter smiled, kissing the ring that slid so easily into place -  _ like it was made for him  _ \- and chuckled softly.

“There. Promise made real. Tangible things are always better, aren’t they?” Eddie, for once, found he had nothing he could say to that - he could only gape, openly, between the item and Peter for a moment or so -  _ I can’t accept this. _ Could neither accept the openness of that promise nor the item itself; treasure from a treasure compounded - and he swallowed faintly, wishing he had something,  _ anything  _ to give Peter in return.

All he had was himself, Eddie realized, as he rose a little from the sand to catch the side of Peter’s face, timidly pressing a kiss to his lips. The captain let out a startled sound - not disgusted, merely surprised - and then melted, his hands rising likewise to meet Eddie’s rugged face in turn. 

In the glow of the bonfire, surrounded by the things - the  _ tangible  _ \- and people Peter had come to call home, Eddie allowed himself this vow. And he told himself he, too, would not be lost - maybe it was the liquor licking through his body like fire to a dry field, but - 

He couldn’t imagine anything but this, for as long as he could hold it in his hand.

While vows were being made by the fireside, Yondu was subjecting Matthew to a different kind of heat - the grill of a man looking out for his  _ son,  _ whether either of them realized it or not. 

The stacks of wood beneath the massive palm-fronds meant to keep moisture from getting into the tinder were shooed of spiders and lizards alike as the two men worked to stack together in silence. Canvas from an old sail served as a makeshift sledge to drag the logs back to camp together, and Matthew diligently focused on the task he’d set out to do anyway; regardless of whether or not Yondu saw fit to instruct him. The captain, to his credit, watched Matt work for a long while before risking engagement - knowing just how little they already cared for one another.

“So,” Yondu said finally, when the silence became too much, “how does one become a Devil in the presence of a Star-Lord?” Matt’s brow crinkled.  _ Star-Lord? _

“Oh - has he not toldja his nickname?” Yondu snickered as he dumped a little bit of kindling atop the logs, flicking a leaf off his shoulder. “When he was young, he tol’ the others he’d come back from stealin’ the stars in the sky someday. Said he’d be the greatest thief o’all time, then. To usurp heaven like that…” Yondu shook his head. “We all though he was a jokester till he sent me back the sapphire star brooch o’ the Queen o’Spain. How he stole that, I chose not to ask. Better fer me not to know, I think,” Yondu murmured, smirk still on his face. Matt frowned, wondering where this was going.

Right. Yondu had asked him a question.

“...I…” Matt tried to find a means around the truth. Not to lie, outright, per se, but - an omission. If only because telling Yondu - this insufferable, loud, bossy man who stank of fish and flintlock - the actual truth of it was...untenable, in Matt’s mind. As unfathomable as the sea when bodily dropped into its depths. His jaw tensed, clenching.

“... _ anam cara, _ ” Matt muttered, defeated.

“Anna who?” Yondu asked, bewildered. Matt sighed, securing the fronds of palm back into place over the stack of logs, brow furrowing.

“It’s a tradition. Where I’m from. T’e soul knowin’ t’e soul, right away. Connection despite everyt’in’.” Yondu made a soft  _ ‘ah’  _ sound of understanding [that told Matt he didn’t get it in the slightest] and stooped with a grimace to begin tying up their bounty on the sledge likewise, the tarp and twine tossed over one another securely. With crickets chorusing around them, together, they began to drag the firewood back toward the site of music and conversation, briefly together in silence.

“Soul or not,” Yondu said finally, “you do wrong by my boy, son, and I’ll make sure y’never live t’see another fight in yer life.” Matt cocked a brow. “Figure’a speech, don’t make that face at me.” He had to fight back a smile at that, shaking his head. “Point is, Peter’s a dreamer. Heart’s too big for his god-damned body. He’s let people in that’ve hurt him before. Fell in love with an officer a way’s back, when he was still with us. Some fool by the name’a Rider,” Yondu muttered. Matt blinked - Peter would’ve mentioned him, surely. They’d spoken of so much. In passing he’d talked about a man with  _ eyes like the heavens  _ and  _ voice like the brush of a hand over a horse’s side.  _ Warm. Comforting. But gone now, and - 

_ Not like you, Matt. It hadn’t been like you. _

“Seein’ him hurt ain’t what we’re here for. I wanna trust you have his best interests at heart.”

“...on m’honor as murderer, cutt’roat, villain, an’ scourge,” Matthew murmured - a recitation he’d never made, but felt right in this instance. “As God wit’ my witness t’all my deeds t’erein--”

“Okay, enough, I get it,” Yondu groused, the two of them rounding a banyan tree full of chittering bats and swaying branches. They brushed across Matt’s back as he dipped between them; skeletal fingers on numerous boughs. A shudder coursed through him, rippling with each stroke. “But I don’t care fer yer attitude. Y’best pray after this we don’t cross again till y’sort through your anger. Ain’t good to be firin’ it every which way, friend or foe alike. Y’ain’t gone keep many allies with that attitude.”

“I jus’ need meself,” Matt muttered - and Yondu growled in reply.

“See? That’s exactly what I mean. Y’keep burnin’ like that, pretty soon, y’gone burn away everybody around you. Learn to rein it in. Because God indeed help th’wicked; God help  _ you, _ if you burn my boy.” They halted at the edge of the campsite. Yondu seemed to be waiting for Matt to say something, and, after a moment, the Devil himself settled for:

“And God help ye, Yondu, if y’ever get in his way or mine. You’ll be a marked man yet.” Yondu’s laugh was humorless, the lines of his face creasing tenfold; phalanx of feelings flanking each divot of age. He was a weathered; battered man who feared no storm - not even one that hailed fire on a Biblical tongue, condemning the damned. He knew his place; his purpose. Matt knew his. In that way, they were alike - and so they clashed; men of the same cloth, headlong and fierce.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Yondu informed him - then paused as they wound toward the little gathering in the grove; confusion mounting in his words: “what in the  _ world-- _ ” 

“T’ey do t’at,” Matt remarked casually, nodding in the direction of pheromones and entwined limbs that were Peter and Eddie, deeply enthralled in the caresses and kisses of the night by the fire. Whoops and hollers followed, as if the other Ravagers had only just noticed the entanglement. Eddie broke away and seemed intent to flee by means of crawling away, but Peter held fast to him, laughing gaily. Yondu scratched his head after releasing the tarp, baffled. Matt, against all instincts, patted him sharply on the shoulder. 

“More complicated t’an ye expected, isn’t it? Now ye’ve two men t’speak to.”

“...Hell’s bells, Pete, it’s always a mess with you,” Yondu muttered. Matt grinned in spite of himself - he’d forgotten, for a moment, what it would’ve been like to have a father. To have a figure like that, looking out for him now. It twisted up in his chest and he sighed, letting the thought sober him slightly.

It was a good thing he did, too - 

For in the midst of the party, under idle talk and wandering hands, drums and fife, there was something he’d been looking for. Wary of. Something he’d thought might be a problem, but now he knew for certain.

A single heartbeat, a little quicker than the rest, uneasy in its guilty rhythm.

Matt’s smile vanished like the sun beyond the sea.

_ They had been betrayed. _


	15. Faith, Trust, and Gunpowder Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man can run, a man can fly, but how far can anyone get when the world comes crashing down?

###  “You’re certain of this?”

Even with his senses dulled by the passing rain, comforting cushion that it was against the unusual and unsettling cries of the night, Matt knew what he’d heard earlier had been a truth not even the most fiendish man could hide away. The heart told no lies - and neither did dead men, for that matter. 

[ _ Unless said man happened to be a very talented ghost _ , Eddie had tried to point out - though Matt’s saber set against the slope of his neck encouraged his silence swiftly enough.]

“Aye. Certain,” Matthew confirmed, his hand lancing through his reddish hair with an agitated curl of fingers. Peter glanced sidelong at Eddie, propped against the treehouse wall, then looked Matthew’s way again. The Devil, unmasked though he was, wore a guise of pure stormcloud - an irritated crease between his scarred and sighless eyes more wicked and crinkled than that of a hangman’s tree. Lightning flashed in eyes of refracting amber, and, inhaling slowly, he nodded again; almost to himself.

“Certain,” Matthew murmured for a second time, sweeping a hand across his scratchy face. Each brush of stubble was a miniature penance he didn’t pay for. A reminder. Coarse and sullen. “How certain are  _ ye, _ pray, Peter Quill, o’yer family’s loyalty?”

“...my family,” Peter said, after a disconcerting moment of tension that stretched just a leg too long for Eddie’s liking, “is everyone I have aboard my  _ ship, _ typically,  _ Matthew. _ The Ravagers are my family no longer.”

“So why bring us here, t’en?” Matthew asked sharply, rising to his feet. Eddie could only watch as the two squared off across from one another in the sizable space, dry and cozy despite the storm growling off over the sea. “Why risk everyt’in’? T’ese people are - are t’ieves who’d take t’e shirt off yer back and--” Matt swung out of the way of an unexpected swat, Peter not quite making a fist, but apparently incensed enough to throw hands, regardless. “Wh--”

“ _ I _ am a thief,” Peter said flatly; all amusement gone from his voice, “raised by these thieves. I owe them the benefit of the doubt.  _ And  _ my life, for that matter.” Matthew ground his teeth and set to pacing, back and forth across the treehouse floor. Soundless feet carried him swiftly, restless demon trying to escape a hell he couldn’t fully fathom.

“And when it comes down to it, Peter?” he asked after a few turns of that, swiveling back and forth; to and fro. “When it comes down to it, will ye protect t’e family ye keep on yer ship, yer guardians, or will ye let t’ese people who ‘raised ye’ be t’e reason ye’re razed to t’e ground?” 

Exasperated, Peter ran a hand through his golden hair before motioning to Matthew. “You’re a  _ murdering,  _ boat-stealing thief yourself, you know! You don’t get to have it both ways!”

“Keep - your voices down,” Eddie suggested, arms uncrossing and hands earnestly shushing. “And - if I may be so bold-”

“Do not be,” Matthew suggested.

“I just t’ink t’is isn’t the main issue here,” Eddie hissed. “We need to be vigilant anyway. T’ere’s many a man who’d like t’see ye, Matt’ew, dead, which is in fact t’e real reason we’re here in t’e first place.” The Devil’s expression closed, and immediately Eddie regretted it - but it was nothing new. Nothing they didn’t already know. Matthew himself had pointed it out, Eddie was fairly certain - and if not, he ought to know. Thus he talked himself out of whatever hole he’d been about to fall into, and clawed up out of the grave of poor choices.

This time, anyway. He still had an entire cemetery to plow through in terms of mistakes that’d brought him here.

“Hey,” hissed a voice from the ladder. Matt immediately drew his sword, though Peter pressed down on his forearm to get him to cease. The mohawked head of Yondu poked over the top of the treehouse entrance, blood-red eyes narrowed in annoyance. “What’s this rumpus about?” Peter, reaching down, hauled Yondu up to his feet with a grunt, Captain Udonta stepping into the space with an authoritative sway. “Out with it.”

“Matthew thinks somebody might’ve sold us out.” Yondu turned Matt’s way, disbelieving, and Matthew scowled; swallowing irritation. 

“Oh, really,” Yondu said dryly, “on what grounds? What evidence?”

“...heartbeat,” Matthew said finally, voice low. Yondu cupped a hand to his ear.

“Beg pardon, sonny?”

“I said  _ heartbeat, _ ” Matthew snapped, riled anew. He  _ knew  _ how it sounded - it was one thing to know and to act openly on the lie when he could, but this - this was complicated. Things were much simpler on the sea, where most problems could be resolved by upending a man overboard or running him through with a blade. Too much stagnancy on land, too much room for error. Too much of a chance to second-guess oneself in the wake of uncertainty - no.  _ No. _

_ I’m certain. _

“One o’yer men is uneasy tonight, captain,” Matthew said flatly, “one o’yer men has already sent word to the ships o’t’e Royal British Navy and soon t’ey will be upon us. I give it...oh, let’s say, t’ree days,” Matthew shrugged with his mouth; humorless. “T’en we’ll determine who’s right.”

“A hunch or twenty-somethin’ years of unfaltering fealty,” Yondu retorted flatly. “What sort’a money you wanna put down on a wager like that, Mr. Devil?” Matt’s smile; lethal in its right hook, rose back to light.

“It’s never been about t’e money fer me, captain. It’s always been about bein’  _ right. _ ” An uneasy silence fell as Yondu and Peter exchanged a Look.

“That’s a terrible policy,” Peter said, at the same time Yondu went “oh, so you’re an idiot”. Eddie tucked an unexpected snort behind his hand, and Matthew tensed, lifting his chin.

“T’ree days,” he reiterated, fingers lifting for emphasis. “T’en we’ll see.”

It was like trying to hold one’s breath underwater...for three days straight. That’s what it felt like to Eddie, at any rate - consistently and constantly spooked by any unexpected noise, hand dropping to the knife at his belt as if it’d truly make a difference in the kind of fight that might come their way. 

The village acted on its own schedule, some Ravagers up with the dawn to go fishing through the river channels and lakes, or risking the surf for similar means. Others, later-rising, maintained the encampment - Eddie; desperately wanting to be useful, assisted in the frond-thatching of the rooftops, the repairs of houses, and similar tasks. He caught on quickly - Matthew made some comment about  _ idle hands  _ as he soared by clutching vines; practically simian in his circumference as he swung through the trees. 

Peter, distracted by plans and catching up with the Ravagers, had forgiven Matthew - “vigilance isn’t a bad thing” - though Matthew seemed more aloof than ever, pulling himself away from the social circles of the evening air and firelight, prowling the shore as if listening for the distant creak of ship-wood he didn’t recognize, or perhaps catching the metallic taste of gunpowder on the air. Whatever the case, he made himself the sentinel of the shoreline, every other hour returning to the place where sand met water, as if it was a line he needed to walk. Not cross in either direction, but - 

While he was here, trapped on land, the world he preferred lay close by - just close enough to touch, to leave to if he so desired. But necessity, duty, obligation - love; perhaps - bound the Devil to the island, so there he stayed. A tiger pacing in its cage, just waiting to be freed.

On the night of the third day, all still seemed well - though the atmosphere in the treehouse that evening was nothing short of unsettled. Eddie was applying a sticky plant he was quite sure Gamora had suggested to him as a joke; more than anything else, to a sunburn on the back of his neck. Peter had gorged himself on fruit and now lay; pitiful, on the floor of their enclosure. Matthew was, as usual, the only one thus far unscathed - though the night was young and already full of starlight. Anything seemed possible.

“Are you a little less worried now?” Peter asked faintly from the floor. Matthew pursed his lips and shook his head slightly; squinting.

“...No. Not really, no.” He’d been searching for the owner of that anxious heartbeat - but apparently, whoever it was, the guilt hadn’t stayed with them long. He’d asked his questions in an effort to rattle the bones of these hollow men, but to no avail. Even Drax had stepped in to help, but picking someone up and shaking them upside-down was apparently “ill-advised” and “not at all encouraged”, which Drax and Matthew both agreed was absolute nonsense.

Groaning a little, Peter rolled over in place and pushed himself upright, rubbing a shoulder. “Look - maybe you’re just a  _ little  _ intimidating.” He looked Matt over; beyond the freckles and the doe-eyes and the hair like feathers of a songbird -  _ how did a woodland creature wind up in the middle of the untamed sea, anyhow? _ \- and sighed. “When...you want to be,  _ which is always, _ ” he hastened to add, catching sight of Matt’s very unamused expression. “All I’m saying is, perhaps they found you the reason to be...a little afraid.”

“As t’ey should; rightfully,” Matthew said flatly. Peter and Eddie exchanged a long-suffering look. “But t’e guilty heart always moves differently. It’s not like one t’at’s riotin’ in fear, but rat’er, one t’at shifts uneasily as a snake attemptin’ t’shed its skin.”

“Poetic,” Eddie offered, despite the shiver coursing down his spine. Matt’s head cocked his way - the faint oscillation serpentine unto itself.

“Makes up fer how ugly it is, I suppose,” said the Devil softly. “But perhaps I’m wrong. I hope I am. Though I doubt it. I…” 

As if on-cue, something caught the attention of his senses.

Sometimes, whatever it was the Devil or God had given him - let him see beyond the four walls of a structure, or past a treeline, deep off into the distance. And  _ see  _ was something much more mercurial than one might expect - 

He  _ sensed,  _ he supposed, the way the lines of the world - ley lines; fey lines, cartography - shifted when things in his environment were in the process of changing. For example, what’d caught his attention thus was not the outright crack of a cannon, nor was it the squeak of a flag being raised on the ropes, or anything so specific and noticeable to even the everyday man - 

It was the fact that the sound of the water had changed; minutely. And that the empty space on the horizon had a block to it now; a great shadowy mass looming over the chop of the surf. A ship.

A massive one.

Matthew’s pulse quickened, and, without a word, he stooped down to seize the dark scarf he’d abandoned for days, tying it around the upper half of his face with a furious clench of his jaw. Peter, who’d been trying to tug a loose string off Eddie’s shirt, started, pulled back to the present.

“Matt--”

“T’ey’re here,” was all he said - grim, resigned, and disappointed. “Get t’e men ready, we need to-”

There wasn’t any time.

All of a sudden, there  _ were  _ cannons - great leaden balls of iron  _ bursting  _ through the trees, shouts and cries climbing up into the night as, awakened from their dozes, the Ravagers rose to war, grabbing their weapons and abandoning their houses. Eddie staggered back as their own house rocked, and Matthew swung out the window, head twisting left, then right, weighing the options of directions. Where to go. What to do. 

How could he fight like this? 

“Peter - take Eddie and t’e ot’ers, get to t’e  _ Milano. _ We need t’sail away.” Peter, stock-still and oddly terrified, didn’t reply. Eddie wrenched on his arm, hauling, and Peter shoved him away for a moment, heart in his throat.

“Wh--Matty, what about you?”

“What about me,” Matthew echoed, jaw tense.  _ What indeed. _ This was his fault. It’d always been his fault. He could blame any sorry soldier or sailor for their actions accordingly, but had he never come here, had he managed things a bit better, Peter wouldn’t be…

“T’is is what happens, Peter, when ye love someone like me,” he muttered. Peter’s face went slack - then scrunched with infuriated disbelief. 

“No - no you don’t get to say that, you do  _ not  _ get to say that, w-we knew the risks. Going into this, and I’d - love you all over again if - if…”  _ If we didn’t make it _ . Peter’s throat closed; eyes welling. Eddie, clutching his knife, slowly sheathed it - not the time, despite the approach of their doom. The fight lay outside. Beyond them. And their Devil... 

“I’ll meet ye t’ere, I promise,” Matthew said, and for a moment, when he stood at the edge of the treehouse entrance, speaking back over his shoulder at Peter - 

Peter saw only a sailor lost to the hurricanes and typhoons ages past - the one he’d lost to the waters before either of them had cut much of a beard - young; hopeful. Naive. They’d lost one another, and now - 

Matthew was gone in an instant, dropping like a stone into the shadowy, waving trees. Eddie’s grip was on Peter’s arm and he was pulling him toward the opening likewise - 

Though they left it in a bit of a hurry.

_ SNAP.  _ With a crackling burst of bark flung sky-high, the treehouse they stood in began to fall. Peter’s eyes, wide in the dark, were all Eddie could see for a moment or so. They were falling. With the weight of it all; the enclosure and that which held it, they were bound to be crushed. Eddie had only mere moments to act before disaster, and so - 

His arms wound around Peter as he pulled the other man close, tucked his legs up against his chest, and shielded him. They went down hard, cushioned by fronds and splintering bamboo. The sting of barbs in his back meant nothing as Eddie unwound enough to check on Peter - mercilessly unharmed; his fall completely broken.

“You alright?” Peter nodded frantically, and Eddie seized his hands, hauling them both to their feet. “Go - get t’e ot’ers. Do what Matt suggested - I’m -” Eddie flinched as something nearby hissed and sparked. “Gogogo,” he added, shoving Peter bodily to the left. “I’m goin’ t’get Matt. I’ll bring’im, Peter, I swear--” Eddie inhaled sharply as Peter fell back against him in a crushing sweep, kissing him deep as any sea. For a moment, Eddie almost forgot about the fact that they were under siege. If things popped around them like jungle confetti, he paid them no mind. He only curled his hands on Peter’s shirt, and - 

Shoved him again.

“ _ Go, _ captain, and t’at’s an order.”

“Aye-aye,” Peter stammered, and, dual pistols drawn, shot off into the dark like a bullet himself, boots trampling Ravager colors and wildlife underfoot.

Eddie, left in the dark that now burned in his nostrils; choked with growing smoke, tried to steady himself. His body sang with pain, now that the shock had lifted somewhat. Around him, trees were going up in flames - igniting by means of the barrels of the Ravagers’ stolen goods; alcohol, gunpowder. Everything burned.

It always did, in the end. This was damnation.

No - Eddie shook his head, grit his teeth, and squared his shoulders. One hand lunged to pick up a fallen saber, a discarded pistol, and the record-keeper rushed on through the thinning underbrush, trusting, somehow, in the reddening gloom, that he’d be able to tell where Matt had gone. 

Pattern suggested the shore. Always to the shore, always to the line nature and God drew in the sand for him to walk. To fight; to meet evil at its source and punish it thusly. 

One hand swung, instinctive, to block the descending blow of a naval officer - who’d appeared out of the shade like a dread apparition, blue-clad and howling. A sweep of the curved blade and Eddie had the man gutted. He didn’t even blink - couldn’t, lest death come for him in that brief instant where he didn’t pay close enough attention. Stumbling, he swiveled and lunged, running; pumping, toward the sounds of the sea.

There was Matthew - a silhouette gilded by the ring of fire the British had tried to set off around the place where the earth and water were one. Matthew; with his banner of war unbound - all his hair red, red, red in the night. He was a piece of it, too, all his dark clothes and his brutality - and he bore down on one attacker, another missing him by mere inches as he dropped to his knees, then rose - 

And with one decisive slice, dismissed a man in a spray of crimson, his throat cut. Stepping over him, the blade he wielded found a home in the other man’s eye; his brain, till he, too, met the silt below. Matthew didn’t even wait for him to stop twitching before he unsheathed the knife, cleaned it on the man’s coat, and kept striding. A steady march, that of the reaper or an Angel of Death. No aerial tricks, no eerie echoing cries.

No - this version of Matthew was one of Revelations, surrounded by end-days flame with a lack of mercy on his face. And he would not be stopped. Not by men, nor their greed, nor - 

Suddenly, his world view warped. The wiggling lines that haloed the landscape, made it possible for him to know where he was;  _ how  _ he was - disappeared. There was a ringing in his ears; nonstop, silent pressure - and the Devil lost his footing, mouthing at the air.

_ Nothing. _

Nothing came out - there wasn’t a sound from his throat, nor a scent other than iron and blood. Was he dead? Was he  _ dying? _ What had happened? Shock swallowed him in fear.

_ He had NOTHING. _

Eddie, who’d seen it, watched the cannon strike so close to Matthew it almost got him rather than the great banyan behind him instead. The tree all but  _ exploded;  _ shrapnel branches and roots flying asunder. The drumming of the gunfire; staccato and frantic, became second to Eddie’s concerns. He abandoned all pretense of trying to stay hidden - rushing out onto the beach; ferocious velocity practically setting wind beneath his feet. 

One hand lifted to block the chop of an officer gleeful to end the Devil’s life - and without a second of hesitation, still forcing the man’s saber back with his own, Eddie shot him straight in the chest and let him fall away. He, in turn, fell to Matthew’s side - just as he had when the other man’d gone overboard, just as he had when Matthew woke, feverish and frightened [yes, he realized belatedly; the Devil had been afraid]. Cradling his face for the briefest of moments, Eddie murmured, “ye’re alright,  _ leannán  _ \- I’ve got ye.” Matt must’ve recognized his heartbeat - some scent - because he didn’t push him away.

That or the terror was worse than he thought.

He took mere moments to reload the pistol. That would be their ticket out of here, he figured - if he could just barely manage - yes. Right. Snatching the coat off the cooling body closest to him, Eddie squirmed into the jacket, plopped an officer’s hat on his head, and - hoped. Not quite prayed. But he hoped he could do this.

He’d promised Peter - and himself [and Eddie was true to his word] that he’d bring him  _ back.  _ So, heaving Matthew up into his arms, gun still clutched in his hand, sword abandoned, Eddie Brock began to walk the fiery mile toward Peter’s vessel.

He  _ would  _ get Matthew to the ship. They could take it from there - because they had to.

“Up she rises,” Eddie sing-songed under his breath, keeping time as he tore off toward the ship, the man with the flaming locks strewn against his shoulder, clinging to him faintly. “Up she rises...c’mon, Matty me love, just - stay wit’ me…”

At the edge of the village closest to the ship, Peter begged and wheedled; pleading with Yondu.

“Please, just - come aboard! Just come with us, don’t be daft about this, Yondu…” Bloodied and furious, the captain stared his surrogate son down, the prodigal boy - the one who’d wandered out of the Ravagers and into something greater.  _ Better.  _ His own legend, one Yondu was secretly so proud of - till this.

Sanctuary - in ashes. His men, dying or dead on the beaches. Kraglin, shouting hoarse orders as the Ravagers took to their own smaller ships, Yondu’s pride and joy now also laid to waste as the three-masted ship was torched by British forces...he’d lost so much, so quickly. The Devil had warned them all, and Yondu, regretfully, hadn’t listened.

But then again, neither had Peter.

“I ain’t no Guardian, Peter,” Yondu jabbed a finger into Peter’s chest, shoving him back with a stagger. “And what’ve you guarded, exactly, huh? This place--” his hand motioned behind himself, “look guarded to you?” Yondu knew where to hit him to hurt him. Knew he had to convince Peter to leave - and quickly - before things took a worse turn than they already had. Yondu knew the sound of those guns, after all. He knew the emblem on the breast of the uniform, and he  _ knew  _ \- 

This was a betrayal that ran deeper than most.

Ignoring the damp glistening in Peter’s eyes, Yondu pulled his pistol and took aim, jaw set and lips barely moving.

"You said you'd guard those that couldn't guard themselves. Well, Peter, I've been guarding myself a good long while." Captain Udonta cocked his gun, jagged teeth bared and menacing. "So you best be runnin' along to those weaker who need ya, huh? ‘Cuz I don’t need ya, Peter." Yondu watched the crestfallen expression deepen on soot-streaked features and hated himself just a little bit more.  _ Time to drive it home. _ “I  _ never have. _ ”

Peter opened his mouth as if to speak, but Eddie’s hoarse cry of  _ “Peter!” _ cut him off. His lips trembling, features ashen and aggrieved, Peter turned away - reluctantly - from the man to whom he felt he owed so much. Matthew might’ve thought that loving him was a curse, but Peter disagreed. He knew the truth. After all, Peter had made the decision to bring them here. Peter had chosen this for all of them. Peter, not Matthew, had done this. At least this part was his fault, and...

_ He  _ was the one. Not Matt -  _ never  _ Matt.

Loving Peter Quill got people killed. Ships wrecked. Homes destroyed. He was a thief - plain and simple - just as he himself had said; stealing everything that wasn’t his until it broke, and then…

His pace quickened as Peter lifted his head, tears streaming; furious. Behind him, the fires of the village began to hiss and soften. A downpour began, sudden and monsoon-like, thunder growling out of slumber in the previously-empty skies so swiftly the men on the beaches began to scream. The sea tossed, the winds picked up, and he was doing what he did best.

_ Running. _

For all his worth, on his long, long legs, Peter Quill  _ ran,  _ shooting off down the sloping incline to the place where his ship lay in its bay, alcove tucked away from prying eyes. Gamora and Rocket were already getting ready to pull anchors aweigh, Eddie being drawn up to the ship via roped longboat, Matt latched to him like a lamprey. 

There. Family. People he couldn’t let down. His last thing left to guard. His strays. His ‘lost boys’. His guardians.  _ Guardians. _

His feet left the ground and for a moment, the wind of the aberrant gales suspended him. Peter flew - floated - thrust higher than any man should’ve been on so strong a breeze as that - 

Till he landed on the deck with a stagger, one hand snapping hard around the spoke of the ship’s steering wheel. His head whipped around, counting his crew. One last look he gave the shore, consumed now by the elements as if to be reclaimed by them once and for all.

He thought he saw Yondu, still motionless in the treeline - but then his eyes shot forward, and Peter inhaled sharply. The gusts followed, bursting against the seams of the sails as they all but tore out of the harbor, propelled by every cell in Peter’s body begging them to flee.

_ Forward from here on out, then _ , Peter thought. His hand spun the wheel, featherlight, but focused. 

_ No more looking back. _


	16. Pieces of Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you keep going when it feels like there's nowhere left to go but backwards?  
> Music here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bPBYICntDy8

###  The first night they sailed in silence. Not even the gulls made attempts at singing. 

Morning was much the same. Mourning, more like, by the way everyone avoided the storm clouds that were the captain and his devil, detached from one another at either end of the ship. And their record-keeper caught between, trying quietly to navigate the storm. 

Matthew [who recovered much more quickly from the cannon-fire than perhaps even he expected] was a veritable darkness through which not even streaks of lightning coursed. Unseen and unheard, he moved as a shadow across the ship’s deck, then above it — soundless in his swirling path. Death swooped overhead as it had across the island — suddenly and casting a shadow so terrible it damn near blotted out the sun. 

Peter, on the other hand, found it much harder to leave things in the past than  _ he  _ expected - gloomily slumped at the prow of the ship, his arms crossed over the wheel, his face tucked into the crooks of said arms. The breezes that fluttered above him moved more like sighs; and the sky was nothing but morose and gray. No sunlight found them, just a vague and watery dawn, the kind that peeks between the eyelids when chancing to see if the crying would cease. No such luck.

They’d left in a hurry, after all, without closure - a piece of Peter’s past lay burning in their wake, reduced to disintegrating ashes. And while he’d put on a brave face and barked his orders to the Guardians’ crew, Peter could only keep that up for so long. He was prone to fits of sulking when things like this occurred, and, quite honestly, no one could blame him - except perhaps Rocket, whose harsh view of the past was “ _ leave it behind if you know what’s good for ya” _ , something Matthew and Eddie found to be, in their own rights, an intolerable request.

Eddie had written down the entire event to the best of his abilities; knowledge flowing from head to hand to pen [and perhaps a bit of embellishment, right from the heart]. He scrawled it under him till he was almost entirely inked to the elbows, his sleeves rolled up and his face spattered with more of the same, like the darkest of freckles, in the wake of how firm and how fast he was jotting things down.

Into their respective work they poured themselves; the record-keeper, the Devil, and the Captain. One to tell the tales, one to tend the ship’s infernal machinations, and one to steer them well. Despite everything agonizing, they persevered - to a middling, muddling along, till they hit a doldrums that not even Peter seemed capable of pulling them out of - either by his mysterious connections to the universe, or by strategic captaining. 

And Eddie would’ve believed more in the latter than the prior, had he not written down and circled:  _ Peter FLEW? _ With a distinctive boldness to the question mark - as if the query itself was querying whether or not it was even a matter of question. Dizzying. And entirely inexplicable, unless the wind had well and truly been that strong.

But in a realm of Devils and superstitions, a man who’d lost his faith could only find means to put it in others - Peter Quill included, so quickly at the helm of his ship and the helm of most mens’ hearts, from what Eddie could discern. How he’d won Matt over - that  _ anam cara  _ business that sounded familiar to Eddie, if not in its entirety until he’d gotten to know the concept through the two of them - 

And how, in turn, Eddie had found himself won over, despite his best intentions.

Such was the reason for his heartache, feeling the uncustomary silence of the ship grow, and the swaying lull of the ocean doing little to assuage it. There was no laughter, no idle chatter, nor humming, or thumping. Everyone sat in a malaise and surveyed the sea. Mantis kept covering her mouth to keep from crying, from what he could tell - before excusing herself to leave the deck to venture down below instead. Drax and Gamora wandered off to the cannons, speaking in low voices - or rather, Drax followed Gamora there, attempting in vain to get her to speak to him, for whatever reason. Groot and Rocket went about their business, and Eddie was left between trying to decide which bear would be more bearable to poke.

They couldn’t go on like this, surely. They had to come up with a new plan, they couldn’t run or weep forever. As much as Peter might prefer to, at some point, they’d need to stop otherwise. To resupply and to  _ rest _ . Eddie hadn’t seen land in months prior to Tortuga, and that had been far from restful. Same with the Ravagers’ island. All of it was a tangle of snarled emotions no one seemed willing to wade into.

A day and a half’s worth of wallowing, however, had to be enough. Neither of them had even eaten, besides, and Eddie couldn’t abide by that, for whatever reason.

So with what supplies they had, he’d closed up his book, rolled up his sleeves, and gotten to work. A little bowl of wild rice, packed in with boiled spices, cabbage leaves, and a few bitter greens with strips of crispy fish, and Eddie had set out to find where both men had gone off to - or perhaps where they’d stayed.

There was Peter, now sitting morosely by the wheel of his ship, legs splayed out before him, head bowed against his hands. Not quite prayer, more like contemplation - between the two men; Devil and Captain, each wore it differently. Easy enough to discern.

“Hungry?” Eddie asked him quietly. Peter started, but didn’t quite turn, instead inhaling and putting his head back against the wheel he leaned upon. A marginal shake of his head, and Eddie held the bowl nearer - the waft of the hearty little dish catching Peter’s attention, if nothing else did. 

“...Maybe a little,” he acquiesced grudgingly, sniffing a little. One hand rose to accept the bowl from Eddie rather limply. “Thank you, Edward.”

“My pleasure,” Eddie grimaced as he sat beside Peter, sore and stiff from holding still for so long; writing. The two sat in silence as Peter dug into the bowl, wooden spoon barely touching for more than a second as he all but blinked the sustenance away.  _ Maybe a little my ass,  _ thought Eddie, though not without a touch of fondness.

“...How are ye holdin’ up?” He had to ask. No easy way to go about it. Peter’s face fell immediately, and his eager shoveling slowed.  _ Shit.  _

“...How do you think?” he countered sullenly, setting the bowl aside and drawing a leg up to his chest. “The Ravagers might’ve been horrible people, but they were  _ my  _ horrible people, you know? And they weren’t even all bad, I mean - who stops what they’re doing to rescue a snot-nosed brat crying on a beach…and  _ Yondu,  _ Yondu was like my—!” One hand rose to cover his mouth, the adornment of rings a rainbow of the elements in the glistening silver glow that made its way through the clouds. 

“Yondu was right about me,” Peter pressed on, hand now kneading the soft place on either side of the bridge of his nose. “I’m - I can’t  _ guard  _ anything. When I set out with this crew, we had - a specific mission. We’d all been hurt before, we all wanted fame, glory, and freedom - or at least, I did. And so we focused on robbing the rich. Hiding the treasure. Well - keeping a lot of the treasure, as you know, but…” The lines of Peter’s face fell still further, and the overgrown boy under beard and faded finery started to turn away. 

“We guarded ourselves,” he murmured faintly. “We guarded ourselves and the childhoods we were denied. That we lost. Never thought we’d have to land anywhere - that we could just  _ coast;  _ and  _ fly,  _ forever and ever…” The hand on his face fluttered away, and Peter slouched melodramatically over. Eddie worked his jaw, listening, his eyes shifting toward the horizon. “It’s obvious now,” Peter murmured; muffled as he lay prone on the deck, his back to Eddie, “we don’t guard anything important.”

This had to be the lowest Eddie had ever seen Peter - in the short time he’d known him, of course. But the man had seemed so infinitely confident; chipper - everything was water off his back, even his past. That aside, returning to a fraction of it seemed...damaging. It hurt him to go back. And to look back. That much Eddie could ascertain.

Picking up the uneaten bowl of food [and leaving Peter the one he’d dug into], Eddie rocked upright to his feet, brow furrowed. He needed to remind Peter there was life beyond this. To get up and…

The wheels turned, and Eddie nodded slowly to himself, turning to step away.

“Don’t go anywhere.” Peter flipped a hand up in limp response, and Eddie had to hide a smile as he strode away, making himself scarce toward the opposite end of the ship.

Sulking on one of the lower sails, crouched in his typical gargoyle form, was Matthew. Black fabric fluttered in the wind, his blindfold tightly wound over his eyes, and his hair looked freshly bloodied against the silvery-gray of the skies and sea.

Eddie, holding the bowl of food up, shook it to-and-fro as one might for a cat or dog. “To eat?” He teased mildly. The sharp expression under dark cloth hardened still further, and, reaching down without losing any of his balance, Matthew swiped the bowl from Eddie’s hand, hunkering down over it to eat with his hands, rather than the small wooden spoon shoved into the side. 

“T’anks,” came the mutter from around bites of fish and rice. Eddie could’ve sworn the food had some sort of positive effect, however - there wasn’t an edge to the word, nor did Matt attempt to nudge him away with a foot as he had so many times when Eddie happened to walk under the wrong ropes or sails. Mischief, more than anything. A little malicious, to be sure, but not terrible.

Not nearly as terrible as he was feeling, apparently.

“How are ye?” Eddie asked, not expecting much of a response. Matthew tensed, curling almost protectively around what he’d been given, and, inhaling slowly, went back to eating. “...Alright,” Eddie murmured, shrugging broad shoulders. “Stay up t’ere, sulk.” Switching to Gaelic, “ _ fulaing, ansin. _ ” 

He moved to turn away, then squawked - as Matthew lunged down and wrapped an arm around his neck, holding him in place. His grip wasn’t particularly strong, not as vicious as it _ could  _ be, but still the other man held Eddie fast, his breath hot and annoyed by the record-keeper’s ear.

“Be careful who ye tell to suffer,  _ cladhaire, _ ” Matt cautioned softly. “Because I’ll show ye who it truly is hence.” His grip loosened, but Eddie stayed put, rooted to the spot. Listening to the way the ash had caught in Matt’s lungs, and the faint rasp of dehydration. He’d not been caring for himself. Neither of them had, just as Eddie feared. 

“...It’s not yer fault, ye know,” Eddie said faintly - and the arm regained its strength around his neck. Scowling, the other man squirmed, trying to roll himself free now, properly. “I’m serious, Matt’ew. The English are absolute shite, they’ll do anyt’in’ to make scapegoats fer t’eir own shortcomings. Ye and I bot’ know t’is. But we’re sittin’ ducks if we stay’ere any longer. We need t’come up wit’a plan, another place, or keep runnin’, somehow. I dunno how, but--” he popped free of Matt’s grip and spun, stumbling, toward the barrel of rainwater nearby.

With a slosh of the ladle into the barrel, Eddie sighed. “We’ve got to get t’rough t’is or we won’t survive. Because t’ey won’t stop. English dogs don’t know when t’stop gnawin’ a bone.” Tentatively, he sidled closer to the low rod of wood with its faded canvas sail, holding the ladle up to Matthew; full of water. “Drink. Eat. T’en please...consider comin’ down. Help, Matt’ew. I know ye can.”

After a moment, perhaps to be cheeky, perhaps because he had his hands full - Matthew dipped down to drink from the ladle in Eddie’s hands, rather than taking it himself. A little acknowledgment of his helpfulness in the way behind the sips, there was a subtle smile. A rueful one, but one Eddie counted nonetheless.

Lowering the item after a moment, watchful, Eddie saw the minuscule twitch of Matt’s mouth that meant he’d been defeated - at least for now.

“Fine,” Matt said quietly, “fine. I’ll help. But after t’at, I will urge t’e captain - and ye - to seriously consider takin’ yer leave o’me. I’m no good to anyone.”

“Not listening,” Eddie sing-songed, tossing the ladle back in the barrel and sauntering back down the deck, “still have a debt to pay! Nice try, t’ough.” Matthew watched his departure as he slouched back against the sail, going back to the food.

“Ye need to snap him out’uv his funk first,” the Devil called dryly, “good luck.”

“Don’t worry,” Eddie murmured, knowing Matthew could hear, “I’ve a plan fer t’at, too…”

Albeit he wasn’t sure how stupid a plan it was. 

For a moment, there was only the weak wailing of terns somewhere in the far reaches, the slosh of waves, and the churning keel of the boat’s groaning timber. Eddie canted his head back, letting the stagnant air shift across his face, and, against is better judgment, decided to break the silence the only way he knew how, sometimes.

It made the work go by faster.

Reminded them they were alive.

“ _ Come my own one, come my fair one… _ ” His voice rang out, husky, but clear - a bell being rung across the deck that roused the exhausted crew from their various malcontented sulks. Heads poked out of the crow’s nest, the below-deck, starboard side - all around, the gazes were immediate. Eddie, feeling absolutely ridiculous, spun in place, a hand on his middle, other hand outstretched - waltzing with nothing.

“ _ Come now unto me, _ ” he beckoned with a hand, and, timidly, Mantis crept out from under the dark of the deck’s overhang, creeping toward him. Eddie’s smile, lopsided and warm, met hers and made it bloom - bigger still, with giggles interspersed, as she was spun beneath his hand. “ _ Could you fancy a poor sailor lad who _ _ has just come from sea… _ ?” 

As if on-cue, she chimed in, her voice much lighter and sweeter than his, honeycomb-bright:

“ _ You are ragged love, you are dirty love _ …” Eddie feigned a look of shock and offense, to which more laughter came, Mantis’s bubbly words still lilting through the air. Somewhere, Eddie swore he caught the interested lift of a golden-haired head, but his eyes stayed firmly on Mantis [or his feet, as he admittedly still wasn’t too much of a dancer - not like others on this ship, that much was certain]. 

“ _ And your clothes smell much of tar _ …” Eddie sniffed his collar theatrically. “ _ So be gone you saucy sailor lad… _ ” Mantis shoved him playfully, and Eddie staggered away, clutching his heart as if wounded, grinning from ear to ear. “ _ So be gone you Jack Tar. _ ”

Eddie opened his mouth for the next line, but instead, found his hand taken by a few fingers wrapped instead in bandages and wrapped fabric, fingers strong from the pulling of ropes. Surprised, he turned and found Matthew there, still blindfolded, till - 

With a flourish of drama that somehow caught him off-guard [despite who it was], Eddie watched Matthew tear the bandana away, haughtily flicking the hair out of his face in fluttering copper. 

His voice, low and sweet, crooned in the air between them. “ _ If I am ragged love and I am dirty love _ …” Eddie’s hand found his lips as Matt drew it close, guiding them into a little dance of their own, “ _ and my clothes smell much of tar… _ ” Tipping forward on his toes, Matt whisper-sang into Eddie’s ear coyly; like it was a secret, like it was just for them:

“ _ I have silver in my pocket love, and gold in great store… _ ”

Mesmerized, Eddie was aware that their rhythm persisted across the deck, Mantis keeping time and singing the melodies beyond them, Gamora harmonizing - surprisingly - along with Drax. Groot tapped his long fingers against the railing, and even Rocket begrudged them a few idle grunts of approval. Or maybe he was gagging, it was honestly hard to say.

Especially when all Eddie could do was spin, and spin, and spin, with Matthew’s smile stretched reluctantly before him, hand-in-hand. 

_ “And then when she heard him say so _

_ On her bended knees she fell, _

_ I will marry my dear Henry _

_ For I love a sailor lad so well… _

_ Do you think that I am foolish love, _

_ Do you think that I am mad, _

_ For to wed with a poor country girl _

_ Where no fortune's to be had…?” _

Sea and sky blurred around them as life returned to the ocean. Teals and aquamarines, turquoise, topaz, scarlet with sundown, navy with night sky, silver twinkling lights, all so vibrant and rich one could practically eat them from the air. The environment they stood in became a feast for the senses, the scent of spices and salt, the sweetness of leather and love - weathered wood well-loved by gentle, strong hands and the care of a captain who remembered, then, where family still was. What he still had.

With a mighty leap, Peter launched over the top of the deck where the wheel was kept and landed neatly; nimbly. In a rush of jacket and excitement, he plunged into the fray, stealing Matthew from Eddie’s grip in a sweeping gesture, twirling off with him, hand in his hand, hand on his waist. Eddie laughed; throwing his head back, as Peter finished off the song as only he could, bawdy and beaming; magnificently melodic into Matt’s startled, tittering face: 

“ _ I will cross the briny ocean,”  _ Peter promptly twirled Matt up off his feet with shocking ease, though the Devil did gasp; landing lightly once allowed to do so, “ _ I will whistle and sing… _ ” He jutted his chin at Gamora, freeing a hand to point her way, mockingly wiggling his shoulders. “ _ And since you have refused the offer love _ ,” a nonplussed confusion crossed Gamora’s face, looking from crew member to crew member in accordance, “ _ some other girl shall wear the ring _ …” Peter grinned down at Matt, waggling his brows.

“I never - there was no ring,” Gamora said flatly, much to Drax’s amusement. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

Eddie smiled, feeling like his work was done at last, and turned to go - only to find his hand ensnared instead, drawn in toward Peter as Matt caught his breath, still grinning from ear to ear. Peter’s smile, in turn, had softened, as did the notes he hit - less loud and showy, more loving - his body tilting forward so he could lower his head; nose-to-nose with Eddie.

“ _ I am frolicsome,”  _ Peter hummed, “ _ I am  _ **_easy_ ** ,” a blush crept over Eddie’s face; ears-first, at the emphasis, and Peter laughed tenderly, nuzzling into Eddie’s cheek. “ _ Good tempered and free _ …” Spinning Eddie under his arm as Eddie had for Mantis, Peter brought Matt back in with a tug to his waist, hand settling on his hip. A squeeze, a kiss to either of their heads, and Peter sighed the rest of the song, eyes fiercely locked on the horizon:

“ _ And I don't give a single pin my boys...what the world thinks of me. _ ”

Mantis cheered, Drax  _ roared,  _ Rocket made a dismissive [and rude] gesture, Groot smiled softly, and Gamora, still flummoxed by the ring line, scowled; her hands on her hips.

“Thank you, Eddie,” Peter murmured, “and you, Matty.” The Devil scrunched a little under Peter’s arm, trying to slink free, but he tightened his grip and held him fast. To all the things he loved, Peter always held on too tight and too long, but that was how he kept going. Not to fully leave the past behind, after all - but only to take what he could carry.

And he could carry them all. Everyone on this ship was his to guard.

And that had to be enough.

“We should talk plans, but…” His eyes mischievously ticked upward as the sails began to fill, a seabreeze caught - in the nick of time,  _ as always  _ \- against the great flowing canvas. “Let’s head below-deck for a spell. I come up with all my best plans horizontally.” Chuckling, kissing their heads once more, Peter released his boys to stride off down to the dark, a suggestive grin tossed over his shoulder as he bounced back to being himself.

Eddie smiled faintly, ducking his head, before casually offering Matt his arm. Just a tease, really. Nothing more. 

To his great surprise, Matthew obliged - encircling his arm with a firm grip, his head on Eddie’s shoulder - an echo of Tortuga, not a ploy, but made that much more real.

“Come on, t’en,” Matthew murmured, bare and freckly face bemusedly flushed; contented, “let’s go see if t’e great Peter Quill can indeed save two sorry devils.”

Maybe they’d even allow themselves to be saved.


	17. Ebb and Flow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little chance to blow off steam with a crewmate. Matt's working through some stuff, to say the least.

###  “Couldn’t sleep?”

Gamora’s voice was calm as ever, floating through the salty air as the ship continued its drift toward a new destination. Down below, Matthew could hear Peter snoring, his arm over his eyes, and Eddie beside him, equally exhausted, though thankfully much quieter. Calloused fingers curled over the ropes in his hands before the Devil began to weave them in; a spider recoiling his web. The chill in the air had draped dew over the sails, letting liquid ichor run down the tethers keeping them up. The cannons rusted beneath the moisture, and everything felt incredibly damp and still before Gamora appeared.

In green as always, tonight, he assumed, Matt could tell likewise that she wore fewer layers than usual. Gone was her jacket with its raised shoulders, leaving her more open to the movement of the air around her. Hide pressed and dyed the color of grass [must’ve been, from the smell of crushed wheat Matt caught off her] covered her forearms and shins, with a plate of the thick leather over her middle likewise. The rest, unbeknownst to all but the watchful moon, was a jade so dark it was practically black; the color of bottles meant to hold poisons - or pleasures. Tranquil in expression, Peter’s strategist settled against the side of the ship and studied Matt. Sizing him up, he supposed, in her own composed way.

“Aye, was it bein’ above-deck t’at gave it away?” He couldn’t help the quip’s sarcasm anymore than he could help the way his smile flashed Gamora’s way, flintlock and nasty. She didn’t seem particularly ruffled by it, however - instead sliding onto the railing of the ship, perching like a great seabird.

She was taller than him, which was just slightly-intimidating. Matt was used to a few men having height, not power, over him - but she was something else. 

“It has been a hard few days,” Gamora acknowledged coolly. There was a scent like plumeria and freesia, plants he’d only caught in the rarest of passings when the ships he took sailed elsewhere. South and East, typically. Perhaps she was from there, though he had no inclination to ask.

His was the origin of contention - everyone else seemed content to start over anew, and leave their aches and pains behind. As such, Matthew [recluse that he could be] didn’t pursue the knowledge. Her business was her own, though the perfume in her hair or skin was enough to give him pause. He’d only just slaked his lust with the lads below, and yet - 

Chiding himself, Matthew turned in place and rested his arms across the railing of the ship, ropes caught between them as he let the waves and wind sing their doleful nighttime lullabies. Lurking under his skin was the restless sensation that he should be doing more, retaliating more openly against his enemies, seeking the throats of the British to slit in retribution. But - 

_ “We’ll go to St. Dominic,” Peter had said, once he’d wrung relief from Matt’s body with careful ministrations of hips, hands and - indeed, everything else. His fingers had brushed back a few dark locks from a sweat-soaked brow, and his lips sought a temple, a cheek, his nose - every motion that of a man devoted to the other he touched, fingers tracing the fine lines between freckles. Matt shifted closer to the gesture as Eddie beside the two of them continued to catch his breath - furling up on his side, his back to the captain and his little bloody Devil. _

_ “St. Dominic? I don’t know t’is place,” Matt murmured. Peter half-smiled; Matt could feel the shift of his angles and the faint huff of rum and sweets that filtered through the air between them. Nudging Matt’s cheek with his nose, Peter murmured, _

_ “That’d be because it was never on any map. It was just a place my mother went when...she couldn’t be in England anymore.” Peter’s voice softened. “Dominic was the saint of stars; star-gazers. That’s what we did every night while we were there. Good times. ...Easier times, in a lot of ways, but..” _

_ Little by little, Peter drew Matt onto his chest, shifting him closer, and Matt, too spent and contented to protest, even with the stickiness between them and the discomfort of overheated skin, settled neatly where he was laid. Peter’s hand [the one that hadn’t gone back to stroking Matthew’s hair almost immediately], still adorned in its rings, reached out to drag Eddie in as well. There was a chuckle that reverberated beneath Matthew as Peter fumblingly clasped Eddie’s dark locks with a tug to get his attention. And back the record-keeper rolled, modest; uncertain, against Peter’s side more directly. _

_ For a moment, they all clustered there in stillness; breathing, lost to the whirlpool that was Peter Quill and his insatiable affections. As any storm he summoned, so did he entice the attention of his elements. A little fire, a little water, and he the conductor between them, temperance to their clashing; gnashing ways. Eddie’s nose nudged Matt’s own after a moment, and Matthew kissed him, listening to Peter speak with lazy confidence below him -  _

_ “We’ll spend the Winter months there, and return to the sea in the Spring...” _

And for a moment or two, he hadn’t worried about his own pursuits. He could have this quiet moment with the two men he’d expected to be his enemies; reveling in the fact that they were anything but. Debaucherous; arduous and undeniable - a Devil could make something of a sin like this. 

But the Devil’s work was also never done.

And if the grand plan was to just keep running, well — unfortunately, he couldn’t abide by that. 

Matthew felt the night wind call him back to the moment - the idea of holding still for that long still something that made him shudder with unease. He’d been so certain; too, that from Peter’s description, the island had burned upon his departure. And yet they were bound to return, to scrape by until rumors died down below the whitecaps, and their world could open up again.

“You’re like me.” Gamora’s voice pulled him back to the present again, and Matthew gave a slight start when he realized just how far over the edge of the ship he’d been leaning. The thick ropes around his forearms he wound and unwound again, restlessly shifting; untangling their hemp fetters. 

“How so?” He had to ask, half-fearing the answer. It wasn’t like him to be so wary, but with everything still so uncertain, Matt felt compelled to ask with some trepidation, his expression closed. Gamora swung herself off the railing of the ship and landed neatly on her bare feet, near-soundless in her descent. Something cunning shaped her words as she swayed from side to side, rolling her neck and driving her shoulders back against the wind. 

“You need a fight to think clearly,” she offered matter-of-factly. Matthew snorted, but the woman held her ground, insistent. “It’s true. Or - action. Movement. When you dance with them, I see it, too - you are smiling, you’re thinking, but you’re also freer.” Sidling back a stride or two, Gamora beckoned with both hands. Matt had half a mind to play dumb, but they all knew his secrets - the strangeness of his vision, the oddities of his gifts. “You are like Peter in this regard, too - though he’s always scheming. Even when he’s still.” Her tone tinted; dryly-humored. “But he definitely thinks better when he’s...got momentum.”

Reluctant, the Devil peeled himself away from the side of the ship, wrapping the ropes around his fingers instead with irritable tucks of fraying knots here or there. “T’is is a mistake,” he warned her gently, “I’m in no mood fer--” his head jerked back just in time to evade the first of her blows; Gamora much faster than he ever remembered to give her credit for.

They’d sparred together a few times since his welcome aboard the  _ Milano - _ and in combat, they had one another’s backs whenever they came in proximity of one another. But somehow, Matt was always shocked by the speed and force behind Gamora’s blows. She fought as though she’d trained her whole life for it, another element of her enigma that made him wonder just who, exactly, let their daughter become such a...living weapon.

But regardless of gender, what parent would want for their child to become such a tool for violence? His own father would’ve been horrified to know what’d become of him.

“Distracted,” he heard Gamora murmur - just as her fist clipped Matt in the jaw before he managed to swing out of the way. He could feel she’d pulled the punch, and something in that realization irked him more than actually being hit. His hands balled around the tethers and he whipped out a hand - blocked by her hand - again, and again, and again.

Unleashed from his uneasiness, forced back to the now, Matthew danced with Gamora, back across the deck with a steadiness to the swing of his legs and arms. One leg arced in the air over her head as she swerved to duck to the side - and her foot caught him in the ribs, though he in turn closed strong hands around her ankle and  _ twisted.  _

Landing on the deck after being tossed, with a bounce that brought her back up to her feet, Gamora smiled to herself - Matt was one of the finer opponents she’d faced in a long while, and his insight when it came to what to do in fights never ceased to amaze. She swiveled nimbly out of the way of a kick he launched off the deck, using the sail’s rigging nearby to empower himself further, and before she knew it, he had leapt onto the low-hanging beam of the sail itself, the wood beneath his feet hardly creaking in protest.

“High ground,” he pointed out, almost-cheeky - before dropping to catch her shoulders with his legs. Gamora laughed, ducking forward - and Matt rolled off her, back to his feet, with a little ricochet of his limbs, preparing anew; stance guarded, head up. 

“High ground won’t do you much good,” Gamora chuckled softly. She was moving, he could tell that much, the air around her melting and shifting as it slid; misty, across the deck between them. “Not when your head is elsewhere. You can be on top of a hill, Murdock, and still have your thoughts in the clouds.” He tilted his chin out of the way of her high-kick, then blocked her next two blows - her fists catching on the ropes; roughening from the impact. Teeth gritted, Matthew took a breath. Into it now.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Gamora said idly - flinching a little as she caught a sharper blow to her middle and deflected the next. She forced Matt’s next flying fist back against his own face and staggered apart from him, fingers flexing. The Devil spat a little spurt of blood over the side of the ship, then began to circle, preparing for the next attack. And the one after that.

“If we’re so alike, don’t ye already know?” Matthew taunted dryly. Gamora shrugged with her mouth, mirroring his posture, her eyes moving across a black-clad body.

“You’re harboring guilt for the Ravagers still. Restless; desperate to serve your actual purpose. You crave violence in the way fire craves its kindling. And you are still not used to the kindnesses you’ve been granted here.” Something ugly and restless swooped in his gut, and Matthew narrowly avoided the next two kicks, though the third caught his chest and Gamora dropped them both against the deck, her hair a tumbling wave around them. The scent of blossoms were everywhere; mingling with sweat, rust, blood, and the damp hemp of the ropes.

“Did I come close?” Gamora asked Matt quietly, their noses touching. He bucked beneath her, and she kept her knee steady on his sternum, not quite letting up. Lithe and limber though she was, she was also shockingly strong. But Matthew could hear the labored breath from where he’d got her in the ribs good enough to get by - 

And he drove a fist into her side to flip their positions, arm over her throat, his teeth bared in a crimson snarl.

“...Close enough,” he relented grudgingly - and, with one last press, drew back off his opponent -  _ not an enemy _ , though he had to remind himself of that; briefly - 

Nor was the man who wandered up from below-deck, wrapped merely in one of his sheets like some sort of ancient emperor, voice muzzy from his rest in bed, albeit no less good-natured.

“What’s all this rumpus up here, and why was I not a part of it?” Peter’s amusement filtered through his scratchy words; the captain snickering to himself, slouched against the entrance to below-deck, eyes shifting between Gamora and Matthew. “What was that trick you did with the drop onto Gamora’s shoulders just now?”

“Not important,” Matt said automatically, and Peter laughed anew, bright and warm. 

“Come back to bed,” he said brightly, then, with a sterner note: “that’s an order, by the way.” Turning, he sauntered back down to where Eddie lay waiting, no doubt, lost in his own thoughts and worries.

Matt turned Gamora’s way, about to say something - but she laid a hand on his arm and squeezed; just a little, fingers warm.

“What is meant to be will come to pass,” she informed him, “go with the flow of the ocean until it carries you where you need to be.”

“...Did ye come up wit’ t’at yerself?” Matt asked warily after a moment. He could feel the way she relaxed into a smile as she drifted away into the night, fingers brushing their way down his arm to gently touch his hand.

“No. I believe your people say, ‘what’s meant to be yours won’t pass you by’. So don’t let it, Matthew. Go with it.”

He stood there for a moment in silence beneath the moon, surrounded by the lapping waves, tingling with uncertainty. Man and Devil. Dark and light. A cause to uphold. 

Perhaps more than one.

“ _ Matthew, _ ” sing-songed the voice beneath him, and, like the Devil summoned back to Hell, he went toward the sound. 

He could let such things trouble him tomorrow, perhaps - go with the flow. 

First time for everything, he supposed.


	18. Pen and Quill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little look into Peter's origins in this particular universe.

###  St. Dominic shone like a pearl in the early morning light.

It had been a quiet last leg of the journey, but less so than it had been. Song and dance, the last of the good food, and off they went, gliding through the water on refreshed winds. The salty grit clung to Eddie’s face as he cut away the beard that’d threatened to overtake him, one of Gamora’s daggers graciously lent to him in his time of need.

Above-deck and to the left beyond the captain’s quarters, he could hear the cry of  _ land ho! _ And the rustling of sails, the thumping of feet. Somewhere in the darkness, Matthew stirred, slinging an arm over the bed to draw back the covers. Eddie nodded to the table, to indicate, but - 

“Oats and honey,” he realized, “which - ye probably already know, but…” he shrugged and tried to shave simultaneously, and promptly nicked himself in the face, wincing. Matt slithered into a faded gray top, rather than his usual black, and, with a slight smile on his face, stepped not toward the little table with the bowl of food Eddie’d put out, but rather --

A coarse thumb brushed the place he’d cut himself, the welt of ruby absolved of pain by the gentle gesture. Eddie paused as the dagger lowered, carefully away, and glanced sidelong at Matthew. Puzzled, somehow, still, by the tenderness he could dip into seemingly whenever he felt like it. As such, he returned the motion. The dagger he set aside, and his hand slipped up to cradle Matt’s face, a scarred palm to a stubbly cheek. Matt’s eyes, like discs of dark amber, flickered and fell, sinking into the hills of his lashes and lids. A contentment like a cat, given freely.

Eddie wanted to stay in this small moment more than he could ever possibly say, but - 

“We should be goin,” Matthew murmured, and tucked a kiss against the delta of veins that thrummed beneath his cheek. Eddie’s pulse quickened, for the briefest of moments, a little snare of suspicion and unease - no. Of surprise, the definition different. Matt could feel his change in temperature, his piqued interest, and the way Eddie leaned toward him as if he was desperate for shade in a world that burned. Curious, how deep the emotions were felt in the quiet hours. Distinctly all-encompassing.

And Matthew was not afraid to face them - in fact, he embraced them, with another hand lifting to stroke Eddie’s arm, squeezing a little. Grounding him in accordance.

“Come now, Edward. I’ll eat t’e food ye’ve made me, and up we’ll go. Ye don’t have to look presentable fer me,” he grinned then - not his terrible grin, but one of boyish good humor that nearly cut Eddie’s inclination to stand at the knees, so bright and sudden was the look. He welcomed it, wandering closer to settle beside Matthew as he ate, the ship continuing its course toward the curved nook of the water where it met grayish sand, the shores of an island that would serve as a shelter - hopefully more effective than their first.

“I was beginning to think you’d fallen overboard,” Peter remarked idly, when Eddie and Matthew finally made their way back up to the deck. While the grin he flashed was lopsided, there was obvious worry behind it - at least for a little lick of lightning that crackled behind eyes like gilded jade. Eddie inclined his head in apology; nervous all over again, and Matthew cocked a brow. 

“I t’ink ye would have more awareness t’an t’at, Peter Quill,” he murmured - but his hand found the small of Peter’s back in a soft brush of digits, rubbing circles, before he moved toward the edge of the deck, letting the breezes tickle his nose with the scent of crushed palm fronds, damp sand, wet stone, and the faint undercurrent of something rich burned long ago.

Eddie’s gaze followed the rise and fall of the little island - a significant spat of land that promised a wealth of possibilities. “The trees have come back,” Peter murmured, as if in Eddie’s head - the story of the fire; the strikes of lightning, just that now. Memory, story. There was a little line that ran between the trees, the faded colors of which appeared to be pendants; tiny flags, patchwork in make. There was the echo of a structure; its beams blistered and black, charcoal scrawling against the parchment of the clear blue sky. A nippy chill was in the air, but it was offset by the furious eye of the sun, keeping watch over everything.

The ship anchored and the longboats lowered, and together, the Guardians who looked after one another on the high seas left their new home for one of temporary designation - one whose tidal pools framed by purple and blackish-gray pebbles teemed with life; urchins, snails, crabs, fishes of all manner - a few eels too, encircling the budding flora beneath the shimmering waves. 

The island itself was full of dunes, little crests of whitish-beige that blossomed between copses of trees, some recognizable, others practically alien in nature. There were twittering birds, but invisible ones - apparently lost to the thickets and the brambles. Blackberries, late in the year [“blighted,” Eddie murmured as they disembarked ashore, warily eyeing the still-ripe fruit with a superstitious eye] framed the path leading deeper into the groves, and Peter led them all on with a lantern lit and raised. Even in broad daylight, the forest became dense and smothering, the swelter of which was leaf-rot and the passing of time.

As they walked along, however, little lights began to appear in the trees. Small baubles of which bloomed radiantly gold, or blue-white, some green. A few pink as well, luminescent and soft. Matt couldn’t see them, of course, but he swore he could hear soft whispers as they wandered further along the walkway, one that had grown denser without attendance, but still present. The whispers wafted through the air. Drax seemed to hear them, too, albeit his eyes traveled to the branches, whereas Matt’s stayed fixed on points unknown ahead. Listening. He could almost make out words, if he just --

“This’ll do,” Peter said lightly - and the trees gave way to a clearing around which more of the little triangular flags hung as before, faded over the years alone, but still colorful in their own way. The little glowbugs glistened on the strands, sending an odd, cathedral-esque light on the realm below. There were piles of sticks twiggy with fresh growth, mushrooms and toadstools galore. Eddie’s eyes lingered on the dark place where the woods yawned open, then fell back to the clearing they stood in. The empty space filled as the Guardians spilled inward, instinctively exploring. “Just start making something that’ll serve as a shelter for the time being,” Peter said brightly, “doesn’t have to be anything fancy, just needs to keep the rain off.” Mantis ignored this completely, as she did the gathering of materials, instead rushing to where she’d seen something carefully wedged in the heart of a tree half-open - a kite, its bowed tail still laced to the end, delicate cloth practically transparent, but - still good.

And off she rushed, the item in hand, giggling as several lights bobbed after her.

“Peter,” Eddie asked in a quiet voice, fixing his gaze on the gleaming things in question, “what - are they?” Peter blinked, then swiveled to study the grove all around them. 

“I am so rude, hello - yes, it’s me,” he laughed, spinning in place as, when finally acknowledged, the lights rushed in to swirl around him - then away again, chittering. “I’m back, just for a brief while. They’re just - things that live here, Edward.” His eyes shone as Peter swung back to look at his unexpected companion; one of many. “Do you need to know more than that?”

“Yes,” Eddie said promptly, unfazed, “I need to know everything. Or - I want to.” His eyes flickered along Peter’s clever face, then to Matt’s stoic expression as the other stooped to begin lashing reeds and sticks together, “I’d like to,” Eddie finished softly, “whatever you know.” 

There was a moment wherein Peter seemed inclined to speak, but Eddie watched the gears turn - and realized they were switching backwards; retreating. With a clap and shake of his shoulder, Peter shook his head, nose scrunching.

“All in due time,” he said decisively, “for now, we need somewhere to rest that will protect us from the elements. Can’t have me for everything, I have to sleep sometime,” he teased - then broke away, dipping in to kiss Matt unexpectedly as the Devil rose with his arms occupied with sticks. The squeak that ensued was one Eddie dutifully pretended he didn’t hear - it wouldn’t do for the world to know that the Devil could make sounds like a spooked kitten. And it would mean a very short new existence for Eddie at the bottom of the sea, he figured.

He had no answers on the flickering myriad of different colors as they moved around the lot of the Guardians - himself and Matt included, he supposed - encouraging their work with rotating hues and rippling sounds that came, every so often, seemingly from nowhere. Matt hummed along upon occasion as he bound and wound the sticks, stacking them high in the dirt, digging holes, pounding stones into place to make structure. Gamora assisted, though she stayed silently watchful - much warier, it seemed, than the rest. 

Mantis did not return, and, after a while - once the wide space had been filled with walls and thatch from the fronds of the palms - Peter had motioned for Eddie to follow him, his smile crookedly knowing.

“Come on. Matthew - stay and keep a sharp ear, would you?” There seemed a moment of hesitation, but - Matt nodded. “If we aren’t back in an hour, you can come after us. I’ll ring a little bell,” Peter teased, jingling his pockets. Matt’s face took on an expression of nonplussed lack of amusement before he sighed.

“Get on wit’ ye. I’ll stay’ere wit’ t’e crew and all manner o’ Children o’Tara.”

“Tara?” Eddie shot Matthew a look as he was led out of the copses, and Matt smiled dryly back at him.

“Ye know t’e signs, Eddie,” he murmured, “mounds; rings o’mushrooms, blackberries, baubles in t’e air. We’re on t’e property o’ t’e faerie now.” It’d been so long since he’d been home, since he’d heard the stories of their kind, the  _ sídhe,  _ but he knew his mother used to comb her hair and sing their songs. How she’d sing by the river as she washed her clothes; and his, and how her long red-gold hair rippled around her as she did so, barefoot and white-clad like a fey herself before the occupancy reached them. Then it was discipline, and darkness, and the slow descent into farm labor. Where were the faerie to, if nothing else, protect their land? Felled beneath the cold iron of muskets and the sharp steel of bayonets, his mother told him.

_ T’eir iron crosses drove all our  _ sídhe _ away. We won’t see t’em again until we ourselves go under t’e ground, my love. Have faith. Be brave. _

Eddie had done neither.

Shamefaced, he stole after Peter instead, drifting along the path until the trees gave way to the shore again. The spring in Peter’s step had fallen to the wayside, a meandering gait taking its place on his long, stork-like legs, swaying from side to side as if caught up in the music of the moment. They walked up the edge of a dune, then over - rising with a grimace on Eddie’s part as Peter helped him up, into the tall grasses where they waltzed under the perfumed air. There were flowers, there, in the dunes - yellow gorse and purple lavender, strange things Eddie had never seen before, too. How much was faerie and how much was simply foreign, he didn’t know.

“...It’s - beautiful,” Eddie said faintly, and Peter smiled his broadest yet - though sadness clung to the corners of his eyes, and the luminous glow left shortly thereafter, receding from a face that filled back up with wistfulness instead.

“I’d forgotten,” Peter simply said - and, hand-in-hand with Eddie, took him down the path toward where the land bent toward the sea once again.

Mantis was dancing in the distance, the kite still billowing in the air, and, twirling, she giggled - her musical mirth evident across the open space beneath the few cirrus clouds that swirled overhead - her partners in her own little  _ chaconne,  _ the kite an accompanying instrument that cast her in just enough shadow to truly shine. She was  _ laughing  _ as she lingered there, still, endless and effortless. She herself seemed more at home than anywhere Eddie had previously seen her - and he had to wonder whether or not she, too, was of Tara.

How many of them were actually Children of Tara?

“--used to be a witch that lived in the woods here, that’s why there’s so much strangeness to this place. I think I met her once, when I was like...really little,” Peter was saying. His hand was warm and soft in Eddie’s own. Even the rings felt warmer, somehow, the cool metal lovingly molten in the way their fingers cradled each other. “But don’t worry about that, she hasn’t been seen in  _ years,  _ and I hardly think--what?” Peter paused, Eddie’s tug in response to being hauled along stopping him short with a swing of his coat around his legs. Fern-bright eyes blinked down at the man with the dark hair and the worried blues, searching. Seeking. Reading, in that way Peter read the air; the stars, and sea, the fire and ground.

Humanity was an element he could manipulate, too, though much more mercurial than the rest, somehow. 

“Sit with me a moment,” Eddie said, sudden and soft. Peter, eyes rounding, turned - then comically fell back on his ass, a laugh bubbling to the surface as he collided with the sweep of the sandy dune, letting the grasses tickle his sides. One finger traced the edge of an emerald blade as he waited, Eddie’s descent slower, but that much more careful. As he did everything, Eddie proceeded with caution. Well - not everything.

Some things he leapt into headlong, like the sea that attempted to swallow the Devil, or the arms of an overgrown boy who held him close whenever he wanted. And sometimes even before Eddie knew what he wanted.

There was nothing about this place that was normal, but - Eddie wanted to find some common ground. He had a billion questions, but he knew Peter would evade all of them if he wanted to. He was good that way - a captain capable of avoiding what rocks and waves fought to overtake his ship. He would not be overcome by the turbulence of intrusive questions anymore than he would be any of the aforementioned aspects of the sea.

But in the eyes that met his, Peter saw those fathomless oceans threatening now - for worst of all, more than anger, more than disgust or dismay, more than disapproval or disappointment - 

Compassion.

This was the sound of the waves as his mother hung up the laundry, as they spent their days in isolation here, safe; she said. Safe from their troubles and smelly old London. The fog faded, and the dream ended. What came instead were storms and raiders, and all manner of ruffians. Here his childhood had stayed, watched after by the hollows and the heart of the forest, offset by the breath of sea and sky. His fingers drifted down the frond of green and found gravelly pebbles instead, tracing spirals in the sand. All the while, the other man held him with his eyes. Whirlpools of cerulean, ever-shifting, ever-changing. Restless and current, tidal and tense. 

Eventually, prolonged too far in the quiet, Peter took out his gun, just to have something to hold more solid than the grass or the earth - one pistol of two - and dragged a rag from his breast to begin scrubbing at the sides. To keep busy, even as he felt Eddie’s gaze stay on him, and the deep resonance of his voice, a whitecap breaking against the cliffs of a moor - 

"Peter...do you want to tell me about her? I'd like to hear, if so."

"Who?" Peter's smile didn't waver as he squinted over the waves after a breathless moment, still held captive in the dunes, his pistol in one hand over his knee as he polished. Nearby, Mantis's flight with the paper kite took her further down the weaving path between the fronds. Eddie had eyes only for Peter and his halo of sun-fire.

"Your mother, Peter." The polishing stopped, and Peter looked at him sidelong, brow furrowing in confusion over his grin, now frozen in place.

"...why would you wanna know a thing like that?" Peter asked quietly. Eddie hesitated, then shrugged a hand. 

"I...want to know all your stories, Peter. Not just the ones of swashbuckling adventures and magic, and it  _ is  _ magic, that you do, I've no other explanation for it - not entirely sure I want one, either. But you matter. Every bit of you. That includes her, and this place. You've...given me more chances than I can count. Give me one more to know you a little bit better. To write down your tales, and to keep them alive forever. And always," Eddie took his hand, earnest; squeezing, and the oil and gunpowder bled between them. So harsh compared to Peter's bejeweled, beguiling own. He couldn't help but kiss the knuckles, the wrist, all between the bracelets and rings.

After a moment’s longer of silence, more than Peter could ever truly bear, he finally said:

“She was...wonderful.” His throat closed, and Peter swallowed, staring out across the sand and the lines drawn in it. 

“Best mother a bloke could ask for,” he murmured, “always looked out for me, always made sure I was fed. Clothed. She fixed everything, even when she was tired, she taught me all the songs she could think of, all the stories. She let us live in the uh - in the old ways, no...no religious  _ nonsense,  _ no barriers, just - freedom. That’s what I’ve been trying to be, all my life, Eddie - free. She’d want me to be, I think. But…” his voice broke and his eyes shimmered, the landscape suddenly awash in wavering lines.  _ Fuck. _

“She’d want me to be h...appy,” he managed to get out, hoarse to the point of breaking - dry tinder beneath the weight of the wind. A mast to crack. A ship to sink. It stumbled into the depths and fell to its knees, subjected to a fate worse than death: to outlive the ones he loved. “I--there’s…” Eddie’s hand tightened on his own, and he kissed Peter’s fingers again, watching his face.

“...more to me than - meets the eye, it’s true,” he admitted, mouth shifting into a hard, rueful line, “and - I can’t...begin to explain it. All I know is that my father…” Eddie went still as Peter did, staring over the horizon. “Wants me, for himself - my mother might’ve had me out of wedlock, hid me away here, but - what I can do…”

He abandoned his weapon of man and lifted his hand instead to the air. A breeze swirled; right on cue, by his command, and lifted a few of the picked-apart, fraying fronds into the air, the grasses shaping themselves into a little  _ ‘help!’ _ with exclamation point and all, a message to the universe, perhaps - before they broke apart, brushed off on the breezes.

“I know it’s real,” he said, his softest yet. Eddie, wide-eyed, held onto him tight, as if Peter, too, would blow away, “and I’ve been running from it all my life. Picking up people like me, who need...to escape. Who need  _ freedom, _ ” he added, emphatically, squeezing Eddie’s hand back at long last, “and I don’t know if I can keep doing this. I just keep coming back to this - place, even in my dreams...I see her. Waiting for me, here, and I’ve been so afraid of looking back...of  _ returning. _ What if this is the end? What if he finds me…? Out there, I have everything I need,” he jutted his chin toward the sea, then turned to look at Eddie.

“What can I do, Eddie? Who am I, to live in more than one world? Do I belong in any of them? Without her, I’ve felt…lost.” His head fell to his arm, knees drawn up to his chest, and his fingers slipped from Eddie’s grasp after a moment.

“What can any of us do,” Peter murmured despondently, “other than run till we cannot?”

“...Peter,” Eddie asked after a moment, hand settling on the captain’s back, “who is your father? You said he was a good man, once. Would it be so terrible to see him? To know him?” Peter’s expression only fell further, and Eddie regretted the question immediately.

“...I don’t know what he is. I lied. I - had hope that he was, but…” Peter’s eyes flashed his way, bottles in daylight, greenish and grim. 

“My father is Jason Spartan.” Eddie felt a chill rush down his spine, and his fingers half-lifted from Peter’s back, dismayed. To put it mildly.

“Your father,” Eddie said, eyes wide - 

“Is head of t’e English Navy,” finished Matt - right on time at the worst possible moment.

Over the ocean, clouds darkened and grew.


	19. The Least of Their Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [presidential alert] the boys are FIGHTIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING

###  “Ye lied t’me, Peter _Quill._ ”

Amongst the gathering storm and the crashing waves; atop a mountain of sand and suspicion, Matthew Murdock drew his blade and pointed it under the chin of the pirate king in question. Peter gazed up at him, stricken - the wind ruffling his golden hair and flooding his greenish eyes with ripples of unease; tears shimmering in deepening tidal pools. 

Instinctively, Eddie raised a hand between them, but Peter spoke despite it, his face whitening with dread.

“I - did no such thing.”

“Ye lied,” Matthew said again, and stepped forward, Eddie rising to his feet a little at a time - till the sword threatened him instead, the tip of which touched the ridge of his throat. Matthew, still focused on Peter, said nothing whatsoever until he took a step closer - and the tip of the blade turned ever-so-slightly against the surface of Eddie’s skin. A ruby welled, and Peter tensed.

“Ye lied t’me and used me, tamed t’e Devil fer t’e benefit’uv t’e Navy,” Matt’s voice was full of scorn, and Peter’s eyes flashed like the lightning behind him, so full of fury he could hardly stand it. Grief and anger swelled with the moaning of winds as he rose to his feet and drew his cutlass, gun abandoned; shoved back into its holster with the rag.

“Just - talk,” Eddie croaked, but he wasn’t listened to - and why should he be? He was hardly a player on this board - he was a stowaway in the worst possible way, behoven to the wiles of a man who could wield the elements and a Devil that dragged men to the depths. Their deaths stained his hands red as his hair. There was no bargaining, no mercy. There was only - 

The sharp ringing of metal as Matthew lunged first, his blade sweeping down toward Peter; singing through the air. With a yelp, Peter drove his sword up to deflect it and parry, turning on his heels on the dunes. Eddie, rising to his full height, whitefaced and terrified, kept his hands out in a vain effort to wall himself off. Off in the dunes, Mantis’s laughter had stopped, and she stood silent, buffeted by the wind, billowed by the gales. The kite in her arms fluttered; rustling, and her oval face was full of worry.

“Ye made me t’ink t’at--” Matthew gnashed his teeth as he shoved forward, breaking Peter’s hold on his sword for a moment as the taller man staggered backwards, “ye - cared a lick fer t’e plights’uv my people!”

“I do!” Peter cried, one foot skidding on the sand as he swept the sword back up and blocked again - curiously enough, not retaliating. Simply deflecting, ducking, pushing, and moving out of the way of Matt’s ringing sword. An executioner’s sweep that he kept evading. No gallows nor knife’s edge could fell Peter Quill, however - or Peter Spartan, whoever he was. 

Blood was blood, and Matthew intended to keep drawing it - till his thirst was satiated, till Ireland’s soil was watered with it and whole again. There was vengeance in his face, and his sightless eyes burned like hot coals against the sky of roiling, oily clouds and booming gunpowder thunder. 

The elements were at war all around them - lightning struck the sea more than once - coinciding with the clash of swords that sparked and shone. Eddie circled at a distance, trying in vain to keep up with the dance he hardly knew the footwork to himself. He wasn’t particularly much of a swordsman - or a gunman, for that matter, or one to fire off anything other than scathing retorts; to pen words that wounded as-necessary in compliance with the art of social warfare, but - 

An urchin in the street can wield a dagger. 

Eddie’s eyes dropped to the dunes to look for similar, and he dropped to his knees to scrabble after a shell or a stone.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Peter grunted as Matthew came down particularly hard on him with an accusatory thrust of his weapon, “I’ve not - exactly been on -” he shoved the Devil back and Matthew swung up with a leg instead, narrowly missing Peter’s face as the captain swerved, aided by the speed of the rising wind, “ _ Good terms  _ with the British Royal Navy! I’ve no intention of ever seeing my father -  _ ever, _ ” he added hotly, and this time, when Matthew came at him with the sword, Peter cut in an arc upward - sending the Devil stumbling, followed by a kick of Peter’s own that caught him in the chest and sent him sprawling.

Matthew rolled backwards on impact despite the unstable terrain and snagged his blade again - but foregoing that, with a mighty roar, burst forward to instead ram into Peter’s middle with all his might, sending them rolling down the side of the dune toward the shallow shore.

Eddie, sharp shell in hand, stole off after them - and he could hear a whimper, now closer to Mantis, as she hugged her kite and hesitated, aloft and all but blowing in the breezes herself. Eddie turned to call back to her over his shoulder; desperate: 

“You want to come help?” A dark head of hair shook and Eddie stared in exasperation for a second or two before snapping, “then - go get someone else, please. Hurry! Gamora or - Drax. NOT Rocket,” he added, and broke off across the shifting sands once again, staggering along.

The waves were lashing the shore with whips of foam, the very earth itself seemed to tremble and shake as the two men went at it - not their usual methods, either. Hate filled Matthew’s face as he followed through with every attack, tireless despite how red his face had become, or how his hair clung to his neck with beads of sweat. Peter, still ashen and angry, bared his teeth a little like a wild thing - pushing himself into the fight more and more as though his life depended upon it - 

And for all he knew, it might’ve.

“Yer fat’er is t’e last piece in my puzzle,” Matthew snarled. Peter dove, and Matt rose, and between the two, their swords met and locked, practically brushing noses, “when I kill him, I can finally rest. I can lay my family’s souls t’rest. I can be free’uv t’is. Would ye deny me t’at?”

“No,” Peter growled, “but I can’t -  _ face him, _ Matthew--” 

“T’en let me go after him,” Matthew snapped, “let me leave ye and go--” suddenly, the wind rushed up against his legs and knocked him off-balance enough for Peter to drive him to his knees with a thunderous cry, sword pressed against sword, storm in his eyes.

“ **_NO!_ ** ” Lightning  _ burst  _ in a net all around them, a crackling, manic explosion of blue-white fire. Eddie froze where he was, shell in hand, and, trembling, looked to the sky. Mantis had vanished over the hills, hopefully on her way to help. To get the others, because God knew, Eddie Brock was  _ not  _ equipped to be dealing with any of this.

_ Quite literally, _ his mind supplied, eyes ticking back to the shell digging into his hand. It would’ve been humorous, were he not so afraid of everything presently.

But then again, he was always afraid.

“He’s - dangerous,” Peter rasped, and Matthew pushed against him - but the earth held him fast, the decay of a sand-pit suddenly swirling; bogging him down as Peter pressed him down, down, down into the mud; the dirt. His teeth clenched, the Devil felt Peter’s breath hot against his face, a furnace of his own making: “what if he’s like me, what will you do then?” Matthew squirmed, but the sand had him. Peter had him. “What will you do when you cannot defeat me?” Peter asked, his voice low, full of despair. “I can’t - lose someone else. Not to him. My mother - cut off from her home, from love, from support - it was his fault.”

Resolve breaking, Peter sank down beside Matthew in the sand of the shore, and all the wind went suddenly; eerily still all around them. Rain began to patter the grains, splashing and soaking as the sea tossed and turned; a restless child in a bed of dreams. Matthew, panting for breath, felt Peter knock his forehead against his own - a hand lifting to cradle the back of his neck; clinging for dear life. 

Matthew had never once been wanted like this - it had been an instant sort of feeling with Peter, but - 

“How can I trust ye?” Matthew asked hollowly. “How can I trust t’e son’uv a man I’m sworn t’kill?”

“My father may have contributed to my making, but I am my own,” Peter said hoarsely. “And - Matty, you  _ know  _ me, you know - everything about me, how can you think for a moment I’d give up - anything I have just to be my father’s son? I want nothing to do with him. I don’t care if you kill him, he never  _ wanted  _ me, and Matthew…” 

Peter dragged in a shuddering breath and slowly let his sword fall to his side. Matt kept his grip tight around his own, even as Peter wrapped him in a hug that held him close. Tucked his head into Matt’s shoulder and drew him near. Till they were practically one, and perhaps they’d always meant to be just that.

“My mother was from Ireland,” he whispered in Matthew’s ear, his voice mournful. “Meredith.” Matt went perfectly still. “Meredith Quill, of Donegal and Meath, blood of two families in her veins, meeting at the point of the River Eske. A believer and follower of Tara, and all things Old Ways.” His voice was bitter with tears as he pulled back to rest his brow against Matt’s own again.

“She was a source of shame to my father,” Peter murmured, “she never said it in so many words, but she held no illusions about his love for her. Hopes, maybe, prayers that he’d change his ways, but - the Good Neighbors weren’t particularly interested in those requests...I don’t know,” he admitted; suddenly tired. The rain was chucking it down in sheets now; sideways. Eddie, standing a few yards off, felt his grip loosen around the razor-edged shell. 

“But she hid me away here. To protect me from his ire. From - whatever becomes of bastards of high government officials,” Peter laughed; weakly, then, and Matthew, still motionless, stared into the nothing all around them. “So please -  _ please,  _ Matty, just - know I never wanted to keep anything from you. He might’ve been ashamed of me, of my mother - but I was the one ashamed of  _ him,  _ and all his wrongdoings - all I ever knew of him was that he was a sailor. For a long time, I wasn’t even sure, but - I found my own way. And I’ve never looked back. But he’s - powerful, Matt, what makes you think you could possibly take him on…?”

“I’ve done it before wit’ all manner’uv ships,” Matthew muttered, blinking back to life. He could hear his father’s voice, low and hoarse as he dragged turf home at night, smell the fire from that and taste the porridge. He could feel the scratch of wool blankets and the bleating of sheep in the hills.

All memories came unbidden in that instant, as they did to Peter - hanging the colorful flags with his mother, “talking” to the faerie that inhabited the Island - blood of Tara brought out the magic in the land, she’d told him - “ _ and you, Peter, have that blood _ ”. 

None of it had spilled, but there was still time yet. Matthew hadn’t released his sword, and he hadn’t moved in Peter’s grasp, other than to stir and try to pull away. Still Peter clung to him, a lost boy looking for a home, and kissed the side of Matthew’s rain-soaked face, murmuring a plea:

“ _ Please, _ ” he whispered, “please just - all his fleets, all his ships, but not him. What if he kills you, Matthew? What if he throws you to the bottom of the deep blue sea?”

“T’en it will be as fate intends,” Matthew muttered - and Peter finally drew back at that, shaking him a little around the shoulders, face full of desperate exasperation.

“What is  _ wrong  _ with you? Are you so willing to die to prove a point?”

“And are ye so willing t’live t’at ye’d be a coward all yer life?” Matt fired back, and Peter’s face went slack with shock. Matthew’s own closed in a wrinkle of regret, instant. “Peter - wait--”

Peter rocked back upright abruptly, stumbling to his feet, and, stooping, picked up his sword again, pointing it Matt’s way. The sand sloughed off his legs with ease as he rose upright, clutching his sword. “I’m not a coward.”

“Peter--”

“SAY IT,” Captain Quill shouted, brandishing his blade, “say I’m not a coward or I--”

“Or ye’ll what? Run me t’rough? Ye couldn’t,” Matthew taunted, eyes narrowing, “Ye say ye love me, t’en let me do t’is. Let me do as I must. Wit’ or wit’out ye, Peter, I intend t’see t’is t’rough to t’e end.” Peter, eyes welling with fresh tears, spun forward -

But a little white shell was hurled between him and the Devil, landing on the stones nearby. They both turned toward the source of the gesture - Eddie, adjacent, chagrined and tired - with equal parts bewilderment and disbelief.

“What--”

“I missed,” Eddie muttered, “but anyway…” Wobbly, he wandered after both men, closing the distance between them. 

“This solves absolutely nothing,” he pointed out wearily, “you’re both a rock and a hard place. You  _ must  _ find a compromise, or else you’ll lose each other. And I  _ know  _ you don’t want that. Peter,” Eddie turned to face him first, “I know you’re afraid. That doesn’t make you a coward.” Spoken like a true coward would know, after all. “You don’t want to lose what you still have. I heard you when you say that. And Matthew - your rage isn’t all that you have,” Eddie turned toward him belatedly, eyes lingering on Peter’s grief-stricken face before settling on Matthew’s - 

A stone; or an iron still hot from the fire, he wasn’t sure which.

“You have more in your heart than just anger.” His hand lifted, and, against his better judgment, perhaps, Eddie settled his coarse palm against the grit of Matthew’s cheek, thumb stroking away a smear of salty sand. The other man flinched, understandably so, and warily cocked his head - tilting closer to the softness of the touch despite its texture, lingering. “You have love now, right and truly, and you risk losing all of that if you fall back on old habits. Isolate yourself; alone. You’re  _ not alone,  _ neither of you are. So let’s just - talk about another plan. We’ve only just arrived here,” Eddie pointed out tiredly, looking between the two men as his hand fell back to his side. 

“We’ve got time now to catch our breaths and prepare for whatever happens next. All of Winter, we can stay here and figure things out. Talk through it. Learn what there is to learn, and live with it. The important thing will be that we  _ lived,  _ actually, at all.” 

Taking a breath, Eddie waited to be shot down, stabbed, or shoved into the waves for his fumbled attempts at negotiation, but -

“He’s right.”

Words he’d never thought he’d heard Matthew say, Eddie numbly glanced his way as the Devil in question sheathed his weapon, smile baleful on his face. Peter followed suit after a reluctant moment, his hand trembling under its many rings and adornments. 

“Aye, so he is,” Peter murmured, “it’s the beard.” Eddie’s face went deadpan with irritation. “Makes him wise,” Peter teased, pulling on imaginary bristles before flashing Eddie a slightly-watery grin. Matthew chewed on his inner cheek before dropping his head with a sigh, brows raising.

“We’re too much alike in some ways,” he murmured, “bot’uv us too stubborn fer our own good. Let’s take a breat’er, t’en. Go back to t’e encampment. Tell me...tell me as much as ye like, or as little, I just...don’t like bein’ surprised.” It didn’t happen all that often, given who he was, after all - 

No sin or secret was ever truly safe from the Devil.

“I’ll tell you anything you like,” Peter said at once, and reached out to touch Matt’s hand, drawing it up to his lips to kiss his fingers. “ _ A stór. _ ” His treasure, safe as all treasures were, beloved in his hands. 

Matthew smiled, properly this time, and Eddie started to turn to head back up the dunes, but - 

There on the crest of the sand stood a man he didn’t recognize, Mantis at his side. Paint on his face lined his eyes in gold; more of the same striped under his chin, indigo and crimson brushed over his cheeks. Heavy-lidded eyes, spiky unkempt hair, a cloak stitched of a thousand different patches of coats and sails and God only knew what else - 

He looked like a demon that’d danced his way out of the deepest pits of a playwright’s hell, tempest above him and eerie smile plastered across his tanned features. One hand wrapped around a staff carved with intricate designs, inlaid with crystals and stones; tied with feathers and bones. Eddie heard the dual unsheathing of swords beside him and felt the panic die down slightly, though not by much.

The rain was moving all around this man, as if afraid to fall on him. Beside him, soaked and shivering, was Mantis, her hands clasped tightly in front of herself.

“I g-g-got help,” she called down to the group below, motioning the stranger’s way by the tilt of her head. Eddie’s eyes traveled between the two, and Matthew crinkled his nose; inhaling sharply.

“He - smells like  _ death. _ ”

“Funny thing to say to the caretaker of this place,” the man said in a voice of whispers, not too loud, yet carrying easily enough from the distance and turbulence of water between them. Peter, eyes widening, straightened in place.

“The witch in the woods,” he realized, voice low with shock. The man smiled, one finger restlessly tapping the side of his staff.

“I prefer my own name,” he said blithely, “but some might know me better as the Collector.”


	20. Collect Thyselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding their purpose in the confines of the Collection - what could it all truly MEAN?

###  For a long time, there was only the sound of the breathless wind and rampaging sea.

The whole world felt like a massive drowning; plunging into the weather headlong. Peter charged up the dune toward the imposing figure with a snarl, protective hackles raised; pistol back in his hand and a look of ire in his eyes. Though the figure didn’t move, the sand slipped out from under Peter’s feet and sent the captain sprawling, sliding part-way back down the dune. Matthew, getting to his feet in the midst of the gales, caught his breath after a difficult moment; brow furrowing - then headed after Peter. Eddie took up the rear, trailing behind in trepidation.

Everywhere, lightning flashed, though its trajectory seemed less angry, somehow - it was a feathery fan of crackling air, swirling overhead in a spherical arc. As if the island, trapped in its own little world, existed solely in the makings of the storm. 

Peter made it to the top of the dune, doggedly spitting sand and scraping it from his beard, the gun raised to the man [who in turn raised both brows]; Peter baring pointy eyeteeth and the Collector, his face full of quiet intrigue.

One hand lifted with a grand gesture of rustling fabric, and the rain stopped completely. 

It wasn’t sudden so much as it just... _ was. _ As rain that came and went in old Eire, so did it now - the gray clouds dissipating with wisps of thoughtless aftermath, watery sunlight beginning to spill across the dunes; creating glitter as the light came in cascade toward the sea, which shimmered like the great spilling of ink to bottle-green hues. Mantis ceased to shiver, her eyes brightening as she raised her head to look around, hands outstretched. Matt froze where he was, climbing up the side of the steep incline, and Eddie turned in place, marveling warily - one eye on the Captain and the Devil at all times as much as possible.

“Who are you?” Peter asked sharply, breaking the tenuous, gossamer silence with a clean cut of his words, “and why are you here? Speak. Quickly.”

“I believe you’ll find your pistol jammed,” said the Collector calmly. Peter turned the gun slightly and fired at the nearest stone - but nothing happened. His eyes ticked back up to the interloper, incensed anew.

“What did you do to Clarice?”

“Cla _ rice _ ?” Eddie asked, the emphasis one of pure bewilderment. He would’ve laughed at the absurdity of it, but nothing in the air suggested this was cause for amusement. The Collector sighed, flyaway brows lifting, and, for a moment, seemed disinclined to answer, but--

“My kind and the kind in your hand? We do not get along. Cold iron; the metals of men - we have no use for them. And they certainly have no fondness for us.” All three men went still at that. The Collector’s pale gaze traveled from figure to figure, then sidelong to Mantis. “Did you not tell them?”

“Was I supposed to?” Mantis asked, hands flying to either side of her face. The Collector exhaled again, clearing put out by this, but said nothing - simply turned to face the triskelion of scallywags that’d more or less washed ashore. 

“Peter,” the Collector decided after a moment, “your mother--” and sensing the dangerous path he was walking, the Collector tightened his hand on his staff, free hand motioning for Peter to cool down, to breathe - as he white-knuckled the busted gun in his hand. “Was a part of this island. As am I. As are  _ you.  _ Please come with me - and I will explain as much as I can of what I know.” 

Without another word, he turned and began to stride away - surprisingly long, gliding gait it was, too, like some sort of creature loping through the tall saw-grasses rather than a man. Peter immediately holstered his gun, instead drawing his sword - prepared for that much, if nothing else, should this prove a fatal mistake. Matthew hesitated, then stepped up beside him, his sword well in-hand, too. Eddie, behind them and sidling over to Mantis, muttered:

“Is this man bad news?” The dark-eyed girl smiled brightly up at him, her hand soothingly stroking his arm for a moment or two.

“Depends on who you ask,” she crooned in that musical way she had, before frolicking after the backs of the men retreating toward the groves of trees. Eddie looked back, the feeling of something else still hanging on the wind, but - 

Nothing but the sea stared back at him. Accusingly, he might add, if he had a guilty conscience.

And because he did, Eddie Brock felt watched as he wove his way down the winding path of flattened fronds, following the sound of Peter’s now-incessant questions.

“How did you know my mother?" Peter's footsteps quickened, the wind kicking up behind him. "Were you here on the island this whole time? The  _ entire  _ time? Why did you never help us?" 

The Collector’s kohl-lined eyes swiveled Peter's way, and his mouth clamped shut. The breezes settled. 

"You need to learn some self-control," the Collector remarked coolly. "Now if you want to learn, you learn by following me.  _ Quietly _ , now. Quietly."

“Why d’ye not tell us yer name?” Matthew asked, knowing full-well the answer he’d receive. The Collector smiled grimly, staff driving a hole into the earth, then another, and another - plunging on ahead into the richness of the thickets that smelled of damp decay and new life intertwining. Matthew, who already had his answer, ground his teeth. 

All around them, the animals stirred. Serpents uncoiled around the branches; scales glistening. Spiders wove intricate designs of infernal lace overhead. The birds twittered, shaking off the shower of dew that’d come from on high in the canopy of emerald leaves.

It grew warmer the deeper they went into the jungle - not unbearably so, just enough that the chill of the sea and its seasonal iciness began to wane. Whispers filled the branches, shaken on by leaves, as if a million different secrets were spilling through the limbs, offerings thrown down at the feet of the travelers.

The light above disappeared, little by little, via the ensconce of green overhead.

“Where is he leading us?” Eddie murmured, to himself, mostly, but - 

Matt was by his side in an instant, on soundless feet, his smile crooked and rueful. One arm nudged Eddie’s own as the Devil walked beside him, head tipping back slightly. “Have fait’, Eddie Brock.”

“I do,” Eddie muttered, and, on a whim, slipped his arm through Matt’s own as they had on Tortuga. “Just not in this.” 

Before Matthew could reply, however - with a cry of “ah! Here we are” - the Collector found a great spire of stone; a massive, mighty rock that seemed to blossom out of the shrubbery and woodwork as if pushing them aside for grand entrance. Peter stepped back to align with Eddie and Matt again, Mantis skipping on ahead with the Collector as he drew back a curtain of woven ivory, humming as he went along.

“How does Mantis know this man?” Eddie added warily - and was greeted with identical shrugs of faces from Matt and Peter. “Creepy.”

“Indeed,” the Collector said, now behind them. The trio jumped as a unit, turning his way, before brown hands were shoving them toward the narrow entrance; a tunnel cut into the stone. “Come, come - the explanation awaits you. So does a drink, if you’re interested.”

“Well--” Eddie was beginning his polite refusal when Matt and Peter each covered his mouth with a hand and a chorus of “no”.

“Don’t even address it,” Matthew ordered.

“Don’t even  _ think  _ about drink or food,” Peter added.

“‘M not an idiot,” Eddie mumbled, pushing their hands away. “It’s just better t’be polite, given…”

A sharp-toothed smile flashed their way in the dark as the Collector, now ahead of them again, led the way down the darkened path between the stones slick with damp.

“...He’s a Good Neighbor,” Eddie finished weakly. The Collector’s pupils reflected in the darkness; catlike, before he vanished into the faint mist curling toward the end of their path.

Stepping out into the great enclave was nothing short of mesmerizing, however - a wild, swirling stone enclosure with built-in shelves stretching toward the sky. Branches burst like fireworks from sporadic places; mushrooms glimmered, and crystals spiked. On the shelves, there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of little trinkets - anything from a heart-shaped locket that felt like  _ homesickness  _ to a lantern without a light, the latch patiently open as if expecting a visitor. 

Waving tendrils of foliage danced down from on high, the curtains’ willowy tethers tracing the stones - making them sing, ringing gently with hollow notes that rose to the heavens. A fine veil of sparkling light spread across the damp rocks, and, under the diamond of sun overhead, the broad space burst with life.

All three men stood silent, taking it in - Matthew listening to the chiming of the rocks, the drip of water, and the fluttering whir of wings.  _ Like cicadas,  _ he thought - or grasshoppers. Or something that much more otherworldly. Eddie, rooted to the spot, noticed the basin of copper, filled with water, in the heart of the space beneath the space where the sun came in. It sat on a little pillar of alabaster; marble. Limestone, perhaps - he couldn’t rightfully tell, given how pearlescent and shimmering it was. 

And Peter, well - 

Peter could scarcely take his eyes off the millions of little items; the  _ treasures  _ in the space they occupied, surrounded by faint ripples of cerulean in the mother-of-pearl stone, practically iridescent. It was one of the most beautiful displays he’d ever seen, and he’d robbed plenty a ship and taken quite a few treasures in his short life thus far, but  _ this  _ -

“This is something special,” the Collector whispered, and Peter felt the swelling of acknowledgment in his chest as he took it all in; a damp laugh escaping him in a rush of startled breath. 

“H’yeah,” he whispered, dashing a finger under an eye with a clearing of his throat. “Yeah, it - it really is…” 

It felt like he’d finally come home, and he couldn’t...understand  _ why. _

"And up...she...rises," the Collector murmured - the butt of his staff striking the earth as the entirety of the alcove illuminated with glowing blue

light; the spiral of which shot toward the heavens, filled with chittering voices and flurrying wings. Peter spun in place; awed, as Matt held himself perfectly still. Eddie, openmouthed, took everything that he could - digging his pocket journal and stylus out into being to scrawl down what he could - till one of the wee sprites swooped in to steal his pencil, whirling off with a chattering cry of glee.

“You are a Guardian, Peter Quill - so you say. Of childhood, of the sea, whatever it is you choose to identify most with…” the Collector spoke calmly, standing by the basin where the light streamed in, reflecting off the little pool of water. Peter, still strangely teary, looked down and around from the spectacle of lights, a few wayward pixies flitting to and fro around his head, softly tugging at his collar, his ear, bringing laughter to his face again as they passed by, swiveling and swishing between corporeality and pure energy instead. Like a million little stars briefly captured on Earth.

“I, too, am a Guardian,” the Collector murmured, one finger lifting for a sprite to light upon. The little one spun, back and forth across the digit, before scrubbing her face and fluttering off - a series of them cuddled up to Mantis instead. “A Guardian of Memories. A Collector of All.” His hands rose, the staff staying in place on the ground, and all the flittering creatures took off at once, swooping toward the top of the cavern. Their glow shone down, radiantly turquoise, and the space became that of the places between stars; the fine webs of incandescence only Peter seemed able to see, that far out on the open ocean that no human interference could occur. Eddie had seen paintings of it once - the Northern Lights, but  _ more.  _ It wasn’t unlike, either, the times he’d dove underwater and happened to look  _ up. _

Matt, however, was having a different experience altogether. The whispering, hissing, clicking, gurgling choir of things unknown were in cacophony all around him, scrambling to and fro around the shelves. It felt cold again; to him only, perhaps - he could taste gunpowder, the icy brush of lead on his tongue, the burning, scalding, scrabbling feeling of something eating away at his vision; filling him with fury and frantic fear.  _ I can’t see! I can’t see-- _

The last thing he saw was the sky, and what he wouldn’t give to see it again--

Peter’s hand caught his, and suddenly, the noises stopped. The only thing Matthew could feel,  _ hear,  _ was the excitement in Peter’s pulse. The hope in the air that tasted soft and sweet as fresh white tea. Eddie, at his other side, warm and solid, clutching his book to his chest with a childlike laugh that, strangely, seemed to suit him. Matthew could feel the way their faces moved; lifting, lightening - and suddenly, the weight of the past was less.

Because around him was the present; and perhaps, if they were careful, something he hadn’t rightfully considered before:

A  _ future _ . 

Whatever that meant.

“Your mother carried the Blood of Tara in her veins, Peter Quill,” the Collector informed Peter calmly. Peter looked his way again, throat bobbing as he gulped, gathering himself. The smile on the fey’s face was oddly kind; almost-human. Mantis twirled along behind him, fingers trailing over the walls, making them sing beneath the tips. 

“W...what?” Peter asked, trying to understand. “What does...that mean?”

“What you can do, who you are, why you can talk to the elements, and they talk  _ back... _ you have the bloodline of the faerie KINGS in your veins, boy. Sidhe; seelie, faerie - it all lives on in you.” The Collector grinned, clapping his weathered hands together, and, upon expansion, produced a wavering sphere of light, shining and soft. Peter leaned in, mesmerized, still comically clinging to Matt and Eddie, now, a hand on each as he swung between them. 

“Did you think you got that from your daddy?” The Collector asked idly. “No - no, your father, that imperial man of the English Navy - he has no power but his lead, steel, and iron. His guns and his coppers and his ships to sink to the bottom of the sea. He may come off as a force of nature, but truth be told, he’s as powerless as the fish he plows his vessels through. He, too, can be upended. He, too...can be  **_caught--_ ** ” The Collector snatched at the air, snagging a pixie from the ether. The little thing shrieked, and Peter tensed, before the Collector let go, throatily chuckling. “On a wire.” The sprite flew off, unharmed, but red-tinted with rage.

“And I am here to show you how. How to get better, to train, to make yourselves stronger. All of you; your gifts unique--” his eyes lingered on Eddie, “or to be determined,” before he passed on, beginning to pace widdershins around the basin on the pillar, staff clunking against the stony ground. Mantis spun where she was, and, with a delicate pluck of her fingers, took a small, tarnished box inlaid with ivory and gold off the shelf nearest.

“You asked me how I knew your mother, Peter,” the Collector said quietly. Mantis swayed up to his side, all smiles. “She came to this island in search of shelter, and I granted it. All she had to do was give me something for the rite of passage, which, after her passing…” Matt’s fists creaked at the implication, but Peter stayed his hand, fingers sliding reassuringly over his wrist before letting go. His ringed fingers extended, cautious, as Mantis approached, the small square object clutched in her hands.

“Now returns to you,” the Collector said quietly. “Your power lies not in your past, but rather, all around you. Mantis was born on this island, Peter - she spent a great deal of her life searching for you.” Peter peered back at his friend; who beamed up at him - then opened the little box.

Immediately, music filled the air. A soft, twinkling lullaby, simple, pure, and unmistakably home to all of them.  [ _ Tura, lura _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yZ7f4R0p_Ro) _...lura… _

And from the water that shone in the basin, a woman’s laughter, her voice, calling for Peter - as, swirling out of the wind and sea, she came again at last - the figure of Meredith Quill, dancing in the droplets under the glow of a thousand faerie faces. Peter, curling his fingers around the little box, broke into a sobbing sound - legs shaky as Matthew silently leaned against him, his face contorted with a grief he felt all the way down to his bones. Eddie slowly lifted a hand to touch Peter’s other arm, the waltz of the spirit in the water one equal parts captivating as it was devastating.

“She comes back to you to give you strength. The blood of our people, and the people of Tara,” the Collector murmured. “I couldn’t help you or your mother. She was poisoned, long ago, by the metals of men, and so - her time came to call her back early to the Hills of Home. But she’s here, Peter, because you are. And she will go with you, where’er you roam, in the songs you sing and the way you dance through this world.” Dark-lined eyes traveled past the curtsying figure before it began to float; fading, back into the glowing bowl.

“W-wait,” Peter croaked, hand outstretched, “d-don’t go. Don’t leave me here…”

“She isn’t, Peter.” The music box played to a halt, and the silence was filled with the rushing sigh of water, the crackling of flame, the gusting gasp of breezes, and the rumbling of a restless earth. “No matter how the world turns, or the workings of wicked men persist…” Mantis was speaking now, her hand on Peter’s face, smoothly trailing down his arm to clasp his hands so lovingly cradling the music box. 

“You have the power of both worlds, and the ability to stop it all.” Teary and grief-stricken, Peter peered down at Mantis, whispering:

“The whole time. You knew - the whole time?”

“Not everything,” Mantis said quietly, glancing down. “Just...that I had to find you. To bring you back, someday. Here. Here is where the heart of your power lies.” Her eyes flickered across his face. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not,” he whispered, but he knew - some part of him felt...betrayed. Hurt. Confused. And yet - hopeful. Strangely hopeful. And deeply,  _ deeply  _ sad.

“We are not your enemies, Peter, nor are we witches, or anything else. We are your  **_family_ ** ,” the Collector informed him, oddly somber. “And you have made your own family besides. You have more than you know, more than gold or anything else dug out of the ground and polished to shine. You have run long enough. Sailed far enough. Now is the time for stillness, reflection. Were we home, the Winter would be a time of reflection, growth, hibernation, and the telling of stories. So, Peter. Rest. Grow. Hibernate. Tell stories. And learn more about this place that is as much a part of you as the entirety of the universe is. You have a series of  _ stars  _ within your soul, boy, and now is the time for them to  _ shine. _ To drive back the darkness that threatens all our realities. Before it is too late.”

“What’s t’e price?” Matt asked, before Peter could say anything. His voice was sharp, full of soot and flame. “T’ere’s always a price fer power.” The Collector smiled slightly, inclining his head.

“There would be, were it not in his blood. Perhaps for you, and Mr. Brock here--” Eddie strongly disliked that the man knew his name without question, but - he was fey. A part of the land and the elements. No doubt he’d known since they first set foot ashore. That, or he’d heard Matt’s whispers. “There may be. Tithe for tat, and all that. A lock of your hair, sweetheart,” the Collector nodded to Matthew, who tensed at once, “and a drop of your blood, Edward.” Eddie grimaced faintly. “With these, and Peter’s tears…” Mantis swept a few drops from Peter’s face, flicking them gently into the basin -

“We will have all we need to give you the visions of what is to come. How to defeat Jason and his horrible ‘Argonauts’ once and for all.”

“I don’t think that’s such a g--” Matthew, unhooking his dagger from his belt after sheathing his sword, promptly sliced a lock of his flaming hair off, tossing it into the basin with little to no ceremony whatsoever. The dagger flipped, and Matt zealously shoved it at Eddie, a raise of his brows imploring.

“If t’is is what it’s t’be,” Matt muttered, “t’en let it be so, so t’at we may see an end yet to t’e man who killed our home.” 

“Things happen awful fast around here. Dramatic,” Eddie mumbled, but took the blade, and, shakily hovering over the basin, pricked the tip of his finger - a ruby droplet dripping, neat and purposeful, into its center. When it came to the mystic, or things beyond his understanding, he was slowly learning:

One should seldom hesitate.

Especially for love.

The Collector smiled as Eddie gave the blade back to Matthew after a quick clean on his shirt, and nodded slightly. Peter, still overwhelmed, hugged the little box close to his heart, then raised it to his lips for a kiss. The object winked out of existence beneath his coat, and, clearing his throat, the Captain straightened - as much as he could, strangely stooped inward as if too overwhelmed by the yoke of emotions now riding on the shoulders of his soul. Overhead, the sprites began to flurry, fluttering in ecstatic symphony. 

“Good,” the Collector said quietly, “now we can begin in  _ earnest _ .”


	21. Winter of 1701

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The true nature of the trio's destiny is, more or less, revealed.  
> Partially, anyway.

It seemed “beginning in earnest” meant exactly that - to return to their respective beginnings and enhance what they were best at.

For Peter, it was, of course, a controlled manipulation of the elements - a practice he settled in for with nerves fit to burst. The captain had never been seen as anything but confident - save for the moments of intimacy with his men, or the vulnerability he showed around Mantis in particular. It was she who oversaw his practices, who stroked his hair when he grew agitated, and who cheered him on, surrounded by the swirling sprites of the island. 

He found when he spoke to the earth, the earth could speak  _ back  _ \- not in a language understood by many, but to Peter, it always made perfect sense. He could hear the way the air sang, how it lightened and lifted him till his feet practically left the ground - but they couldn’t, right? Not completely - that’d be absurd. The fire spoke in a crackling, overeager way that was like a child telling a story - till it exhausted itself out in the pits they built to keep warm by night. 

And the ocean, well - 

The ocean was in a constant state of mourning. So much blood spilled upon her waves, she wept like a widow and a mother in search of her children...but grief could pull a man under, and hold him down till the bubbles stopped finding their way to the surface.

The ocean was a dangerous woman, not only a widow, but a black widow at that.

This and many other things came to Peter in his weeks of ‘rest’ upon his mother’s island - “Neverland”, as he called it when he was a child, because his mother used to catch him staring out to sea; worriedly, and snag him around the shoulders, kissing his cheeks till he giggled again. “ _ They can never land here, Peter, _ ” she told him fondly between pecks, “ _ never, never, never. And you’ll never have to grow up across the sea in that dirty city. You’re safe. You’re safe, and I love you so. _ ”

He’d tried to see her again, that visage; or echo, whatever it was, in the Collector’s chamber, but - she did not reappear. It had been a brief window of purpose - the Collector informing him that if he wanted to see her again, he’d have to  _ practice.  _ And so that was why he was - more than defeating the Navy or disarming his distant father, it was to see her. Always to the past, even when he moved toward a future. He had to do this.

He had to, and he welcomed it. 

For Matthew, it was a matter of honing the physical. He was, of course, built for this - the vengeance and merciless bloodshed the ocean herself had come to be wary of - or so Peter told him, though how much stock he put in a talking sea remained to be seen [though not by him]. The Devil’s machinations were that of his strong hands and his willpower, determined to drive every last soldier to the sea bed for their eternal rest.

And so, it was with Gamora, Drax, and the others that Matthew bided his time - up before dawn to stretch and make use of his body; ‘tuning the instrument’, so to speak. He swirled and spun as the sun rose so often red beyond him, but - no warning was taken. The superstition of a bloody dawn was nothing more than that, as far as Matthew was concerned. He had no time for such things - only time to try and best Gamora; so quick and lethal with her hands and weapons that she often left him on his knees, her blade beneath his bristling chin. Only once or twice so far did he manage to catch her off-guard - by committing himself to the use of the environment he still didn’t know very well. But a vine here, a twist around a trunk there, and he was swinging with ease through the trees, acrobatic as ever.

Drax was another story - though, thankfully, he’d yet to run into any soldiers or sailors of his bulk and ilk on his own, Matt liked to keep his options open. 

And going up against a behemoth of muscle-mass who knew how to wield a cannon like it was just a pistol was...definitely something he needed in his wheelhouse. 

Luckily, overcoming Drax was a simple matter of distraction and confusion - Matt had also been attuning the effort of casting his voice; the soft calls for help through the forest coercing Drax away from the group more than once. His naivete was easy to navigate - though his ire, more so. When Drax was truly incensed, he became a battering ram of unstoppable force - but that was also something Matt could work with. Gentle pits covered by leaves to deter him, or leading him to the river to cool off - many a way to take out the man or lower his defenses. Tactical strategy, all while Matt climbed through the canopy of trees like a spider-monkey, feral grin on his face beneath his blazing beard.

As for Eddie, he had little to go off of, other than to observe his men and see them work at a distance. He still gathered food, built shelters, repaired things - but altogether, he was lost in thought for a lot of the Winter, his wits about him and his senses on alert, lest something come from across the sea despite Peter’s reassurance that nobody would find them all the way out here.

His mind kept returning to the Collector’s cavern as the other man had paced around its circular enclosure; like a mighty tiger - the kind Eddie had only seen in depictions and etchings; nothing so dangerous and lethal as up-close [yet, anyway]. The island made it seem like anything was possible - and parts of that were glorious, but this…

Sense of danger pervaded everything. It followed the Collector as the robed figure walked around and addressed them all; that fateful day amidst all his trappings and belongings. Metal against stone rang out decisively as he marked each of them for their purpose. For their focus.

For their lives.

"You, Peter, are the Guardian of Freedom, eternally youthful, wild as the elements. You, Matthew, are Guardian of Eire - and all its many devils." The Collector waggled two fingers on either side of his head like horns before turning to Eddie, who promptly said:

"Ye know he can't see t'at, right?" only to be met with quiet laughter.

"And you, Eddie. Do you know what you're the Guardian of?"

"Words," Edward Brock said with confidence. The Collector shook his head, grinning more broadly than before:

"Them, Eddie." His head indicated the two men now softly squabbling in a corner. "You guard their love."

Both men turned his way with an air of surprise [Peter bemused; Matthew downright befuddled], and Eddie felt every inch of his body light up with hot agitation, mortified. Sucking in a breath, he simply rocked back on his heels and shrugged his hands, thinking. He wasn’t particularly good with pistol or sword, he was a mediocre sailor at best, a decent swimmer - well. He could...navigate, jot things down; write, even, if he was feeling generous, strategize, memorize, but…

What did it  _ matter  _ when they were...who they were? And he was just - 

The record-keeper, traitorous, cowardly, and volatile.

"Great," Eddie said after a beat, the word clicking behind his teeth as his brows raised high, "fat lot of good that'll do when we're in dire straits."

But he’d sat and thought about it for a while, alone on the dunes, overlooking the water. Once they’d left the cavern, the Collector had snagged him by the arm and spoken to him in a low, quiet voice:

_ “When the time is right,” _ he’d said,  _ “you must make a choice, regarding their love. You must decide whether or not you would give everything to see their love save this world. Our world; our people.” _ His eyes traveled Eddie’s face as if looking for weakness anywhere therein, and, with a gentle squeeze of his arm, the Collector added,  _ “you may not be of our kind, but Eire is in your veins. Don’t shy away from it. She is the rivers and streams, the oceans and all that tempest. You, too, are these things. And these things, too, could save us all.” _

“Cryptic nonsense,” Eddie muttered to himself, flinging a pebble toward the sands below. Gulls circled and cried, seeking refuge and food - Eddie’d made the mistake of sharing his bread with them, and down they’d fallen in search of his little meals ever-more.

Ingredients and sustenance were surprisingly abundant on the island, at least. Fruit that flowered throughout the year thanks to the shifting of hot springs, among other things - magic, no doubt, if one could believe in such madness [and how could one not, surrounded as they all were?], crates that crashed ashore seemingly abandoned by the great ships on their trade routes [perhaps a product of magic as well] - and wild game. There was plenty here, and Eddie had no doubt that they would make it through the season of inclement weather and all other forms of storm therein.

It was just a matter of what came  _ after _ .

“Still up’ere broodin’ away t’e day,  _ leathcheann? _ ” Eddie picked his head up from where he’d fallen against his knees and glanced sidelong at the Devil - black shirt open to his caps of scarlet hair across a freckled surface flecked in sweat greeting him first and foremost - before Matthew wrenched the bandana from his eyes and plopped beside him on the sand, almost-smiling. It was the wicked demon that took the corner of his mouth and tilted it skyward, as if gesturing to God,  _ see what you’ve been missing? _ Eddie’s heart fluttered, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at the other man’s face, overcome by the sudden swell of fondness under his sternum.

“I’m contemplating deeply, not  _ brooding, _ ” Eddie countered - and Matt cocked a brow at him knowingly, a little smug smirk on his face.

“Contemplatin’ yer love fer us, is t’at it?” Eddie’s face heated up, though nowhere near as fiercely as his ears. Reaching up, the Devil tugged on one - resulting in Eddie batting at his hand and shying away with a scowl. Laughing softly, Matt stretched a leg out in front of himself and leaned away again, listening to the way the waves seemed to match the restless movements of Eddie Brock’s heart.

“I still don’t know what any of this means, Matthew,” Eddie murmured. Matt didn’t respond at first, other than to tip his head back to let the wind ruffle his banner of beautiful russett hair. Eddie hesitated, then, after a moment, slipped a hand up to brush a few locks behind his ear - the Devil tilting his scruffy face into Eddie’s palm as if he was no more than a mere housecat - contentedly cradled by someone he  _ loved. _

“It’s a grand design,” Matthew murmured, though his voice was a little more tired, a little less playful, “whatever it is, it’ll get us where we need t’go. It’ll take us to our destiny, our fate.”

“T’ought ye weren’t one fer believin’ in fate, Matty,” Eddie murmured, dropping the pretense of the accent - and with a sigh, Matthew nuzzled into the palm of his hand a bit more, the cut of his beard scratching Eddie’s skin. One hand lifted, then the other, keeping Eddie’s hand close to himself as he pushed down his sleeve. Across Eddie’s flesh, old scars, brands, and marks - so typically-hidden by cloth he himself had all but forgotten them. 

Or tried to.

Eddie didn’t really - forget things. 

“I’m starting to,” Matt murmured, his lips traveling across the heel of Eddie’s hand, the wrist, the forearm, basking in the warmth of his skin. Eddie closed his eyes, the intimate, gradual motion gentler than any Matthew had ever performed. At least where he was concerned. He always knew where to touch, how to go about eliciting sounds, reactions. A method master of many sins, even now, Eddie could feel the way Matt’s lips made his toes curl in the sand. For a moment, nothing but the motion of his mouth, catching on the flesh and kissing it over and over, mirrored the rocking tide.

“Ye and Peter make me want to,” he admitted softly, once he’d reached the crook of Eddie’s elbow, rising from the depths. Eddie, dark-eyed and uneasy, watched his face for a moment, searching. Seeking what, he didn’t know, but he had to find out - he fought with himself for a second before - 

“I don’t know how to guard someone’s  _ love, _ ” Eddie whispered. Matthew, his sightless eyes of honey and rum, looked back at him with that same little smirk, knowing, somehow - things Eddie didn’t. 

“Ye feed us, don’t ye?” Matthew asked, and Eddie felt another hand find his back from the other side. Whirling, he saw Peter settle beside him, head butting against his shoulder with a tired mumble of appreciation. 

“He does feed us, doesn’t he,” Peter remarked - then grinned, turning to glance Eddie’s way, chin propped on his shoulder. If he was blushing before, well - Eddie Brock was downright crimson, now. “And you dance with us--”

“Sing wit’ us,” Matthew said, his fingers linking through a few of Eddie’s own in a lazy tug.

“Keep records of all our stories. Things we don’t even think about seem to matter to  _ you,  _ Eddie,” Peter said brightly. His lips found the top of Eddie’s head as he rose a little, one leg out further than the other as the dune beneath him shifted, leaving him awash in fresh titters of mirth.

“What more needs doing than that?”

“Ye don’t have to make it complicated,” Matthew murmured. “Sometimes it really is just a matter’uv knowing which way t’e wind is blowing--”

“Or what wrongs need to be righted,” Peter added gently. Between them, observing the water and letting their words wrap him up in froth and foam, Eddie drowned in the scent and sensation of their embrace, the warmth of their love. It was sweeter than cane sugar, sticky as pudding, and he wanted nothing more than to stay in this moment for eternity.

His heart, still so broken, still so battered - jaded, cynical Eddie - from childhood on - felt, for the second time, that molten sunrise that was the promise of a new day without fear of another tomorrow. The dark night still lay before them, but here, they could spot the horizon line. 

It was a wedding band of gold across the world, a marriage of sea, earth, and sky. He felt his fingers curl around Matt’s own, turning to kiss Peter in the flickering, dappled light.

When he opened his eyes, he was alone on the dunes, but he could hear the laughter in the distance that was Peter discovering something new. He could hear Matthew’s grunts and groans as Gamora wrestled him to the ground  _ again.  _ Rocket and Groot were arguing about shelter nearby - though it was mostly Rocket proclaiming what a brilliant, tactical man he was and Groot nonchalantly undoing all his hard work with a simple, clumsy action. Drax sat with Mantis somewhere in the forest, and somehow, Eddie knew all of this and more - 

Just as he knew no matter what love meant, he would guard it.

Apparently, he already was. 

He only hoped it would be enough for what lay ahead, looming, with cannons like thunder and sails like shrouds, on the darkest and coldest of nights.


End file.
